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THE 


BO  WDOIN    POETS 


EDITED    BY 

V 


EDWARD  p.  WESTON. 
n 


Floriferis  ut  apes  in  saltibus  omnia  libant, 
Omnia  nos  itidem  depascimur  aurea  dicta." 


BRUNSWICK: 
PUBLISHED     BY     JOSEPH     GRIFFIN. 

M  DCCC  XL. 


PRESS   OF   JOSEPH   GRIFFIN,    BRUNSWICK,    ME. 


TO     THE 


REV.  LEONARD  WOODS,  JR.  D.D 

PRESIDENT     OF    BOWDOIN     C  0  L  L  E  &  E, 


Volume 
Xs  rcspectf  ulln   3Dc&Uat«& 
BY   THE    EDITOR. 


M189G05 


PREFACE. 


THE  collection  of  this  little  volume  was  under- 
taken by  the  compiler,  to  occupy  the  leisure  of  a 
few  weeks  not  otherwise  appropriated.  The  de- 
sign, though  we  believe  entirely  novel,  needs  but  a 
word  of  explanation.  It  is  a  BOWDOIN  BOOK — the 
united  offering  of  her  poets  at  the  shrine  of  the 
BOWDOIN  MUSE  ; — and  presented  to  her  Alumni 
as  a  memento  of  their  cherished  Alma  Mater.  A 
thing  of  local  interest,  and  principally  intended  to 
meet  the  partial  eye  of  its  friends,  it  was  not  fash- 
ioned exclusively  in  reference  to  the  taste,  or 
the  criticism,  of  the  literary  Public.  Yet  in  al- 
lowing it  to  pass  beyond  the  circle  for  which  it 
was  especially  intended,  we  must  plead  guilty  to  the 
charge  of  believing  that  its  appearance  abroad  will 
be  respectable  ; — a  vanity,  pardonable  perhaps,  in 
one  so  little  removed  from  college  life,  as  not  to  have 
entirely  lost  in  the  levelling  of  the  great  world,  the 
student's  peculiar  regard  for  his  own  institution. 
We  mean  however,  to  claim  for  it  no  excellence  su- 

A* 


VI  PREFACE. 

perior  to  that  which  any  similar  book  might  possess, 
had  one  the  idle  curiosity  to  compile  it.  And  in- 
deed, from  the  circumstances  in  which  this  volume 
has  been  prepared,  we  cannot  offer  it  as  a  perfect 
specimen  of  our  own  poetical  literature. 

The  selection  of  the  materials  composing  the 
volume,  has  been  attended  with  many  difficulties. 
Not  the  least  of  these,  was  that  of  deciding  how 
far  a  rigid  criticism  should  yield  to  a  regard  for 
the  interest,  which  a  larger  number  of  contributors 
would  give  the  book,  as  intended  for  Bowdoin  read- 
ers. Again,  the  little  time  allowed  us  after  the 
project  was  conceived,  before  it  was  necessary  to 
publish  the  book — if  published  at  all — obliged  us 
to  commence  the  printing  before  all  the  materials 
were  communicated.  For  this  reason,  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  poems  will  be  found  wholly  miscella- 
neous— no  regard  having  been  paid  to  subject  or 
style — or  priority  of  age  in  the  writers,  farther 
than,  where  it  was  convenient,  to  mingle  "  the  green 

leaves  with  the  dry." Owing  to  the  late  date  of 

many  of  the  communications,  a  very  disproportion- 
ate selection  has  been  made  from  the  different  con- 
tributors.— It  will  be  noticed  that  we  have  drawn 
largely  upon  the  published  articles  of  some  of  our 
writers.  If  the  peculiar  excellence  of  any  pieces, 
has  made  them  familiar  to  the  public  eye,  it  is  not 


PREFACE.  VII 

perhaps  to  our  discredit,  that  we  can  claim  them  as 
our  offspring. 

Should  individuals  look  in  vain  for  names  they 
expected  to  find  in  the  volume,  we  have  only  to  as- 
sure them  of  our  intention  to  do  impartial  justice. 
We  have  spared  no  pains  to  ascertain  the  address 
of  all  who  are  entitled  to  a  representation  upon  its 
pages,  hut  fear  that  some  have  been  overlooked. 
From  a  large  number  also  to  whom  our  Circular 
was  sent,  no  answer  has  been  received  ;  leaving 
us  to  suppose  that  the  communication,  upon  one  side 
or  the  other,  miscarried.  Some  articles  furnished, 
have  been  necessarily  excluded;  and  in  others,  their 
authors  will  notice  a  few  slight  alterations. 

In  the  case  of  several  individuals  to  whom  the 
Circular  was  sent,  the  Editor  regrets  that  their 
modesty  has  led  them  to  decline  occupying  the 
pages  offered  them.  We  would  with  pleasure  have 
added  to  our  list  of  contributors,  besides  others, 
the  names  of  Charles  S.  Daveis  and  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne,  Esquires  ; — the  Hon.  Messrs.  Bellamy 
Storer,  Robert  P.  Dunlap,  George  Evans  and  S.  S. 
Prentiss  ; — and  the  Rev.  Messrs.  Thomas  T.  Stone, 
Calvin  E.  Stowe,  George  B.  Cheever  and  Horatio 
Southgate  ;  all  of  whom  are  remembered  by  their 
college  contemporaries  as  "  Bowdoin  Poets." 

It  will  be  perceived  from  the  names  starred  in 


TABLE   OF   CONTRIBUTORS, 


WITH   THEIR   TIME   OF    GRADUATION. 


FRANCIS   BARBOUR  1830 

CHARLES  H.  BROWNE  1838 

NEHEMIAH  CLEAVELAND  1813 

WILLIAM  G.  CROSBY  1823 

WILLIAM  CUTTER  1821 

DANIEL  DOLE  1836 

ANDREW  DUNNING  1837 

EDMUND  FLAGG  1835 

HENRY  W.  FULLER,  JR.  1828 

BENJ.  A.  G.  FULLER  1839 

HENRY  J.  GARDNER  1838 

CLAUDE  L.   HEMANS  1838 

ELIJAH  KELLOGG,  JR.  1840 

GEORGE  W.    LAME  1837 

HENRY  W.   LONGFELLOW  1825 

GEORGE  F.  MAGOUN  1841 


FREDERIC  MELLEN  1825 

ISAAC  M'LELLAN,  JR.  1826 

EPHRAIM  PEABODY  1827 

CHARLES  H.  PORTER  1839 

NATHANIEL  L.  SAWYER  1838 

SEBA  SMITH  1818 

JOHN  B.  L.  SOULE  1840 

GEORGE  F.  TALBOT  1837 

BENJAMIN  B.  THATCHER  1826 

CHARLES  W.  UPHAM  1833 

CHARLES  H.  UPTON  1834 

RICHARD  H.  VOSE  1822 

WILLIAM  B.  WALTER  1818 

EDWARD  P.  WESTON  1839 

ROBERT  WYMAN  1838 


NOTE.  In  the  above  table,  names  of  individuals  who  left 
before  the  close  of  their  college  course,  are  entered  with  the 
year  in  which  their  classes,  respectively,  were  graduated. 


CONTENTS, 


The  Spirit  of  Poetry    .     . 
To  an  Infant    .... 
The  Troubadour      .     .     . 
Night  in  the  "Woods  .    . 

Andre 

The  Rainbow  .... 
Weep  not  for  the  Dead    . 

Farewell 

The  Notes  of  the  Birds  . 
The  Mother  perishing  . 
Prayer  of  the  Covenanters 
The  Beleaguered  City  .  . 
Lines  on  leaving  Casco  . 
The  Tell-Tale  Face  .  . 

Stanzas     

To  a  Sister      .... 
The  Skater's  Song       .    . 

Ogilvie 

Autumn 

Paul  at  Athens     .     .     . 


.    H.W.Longfellow 

.  Wm.  B.  Walter  . 
Frederic  Mellen 

,  Ephraim  Peabody 
,  C.  W.  XTpham  .  . 

.  C.  H.  Upton  .  . 
B.  B.  Thatcher 

.  J.  B.  L.  Soule  . 
Isaac  M'Lellan,  Jr. 

.  Seba  Smith  .  . 
Francis  Barbour 

.  H.  W.  Longfellow 
,  C.  H.  Porter  .  , 

.  William  Cutter  . 
,  B.  A.  G.  Fuller  , 

.  B.  B.  Thatcher  . 
.  Ephraim  Peabody 

.  Wm.  B.  Walter  . 
.  Isaac  M'Lellan,  Jr. 

.  The  Editor 


.     1 

.  4 
.  9 

11 
.  13 

16 
.  17 

19 
.21 

25 
.27 

30 
.  33 

38 
.  41 

46 
.49 

51 
.54 

57 


XII  CONTENTS. 

Venetian  Moonlight  .  .  .  Frederic  Mellen  ....  64 
St.  John  in  Exile  ....  Andrew  Dunning  ...  67 

The  Deluge Wm.  G.  Crosby       ....  73 

"Love's  Blind" C.  H.  Porter 75 

To  the  Author's  Wife  .     .     .    Seba  Smith 76 

Jacob's  Funeral C.  W.  Upham      ....    79 

Vespers     ....         .    .    Francis  Barbour     .     .     .     .81 

Burial  of  the  Minnisink     .     .  H.  "W.  Longfellow    ...     83 

The  Victim H.  W.  Fuller,  Jr 86 

The  Wabash J.  B.  L.  Soule      ....    89 

The  Haunted  Wood  .  .  .  Isaac  M'Lellan,  Jr.  .  .  .  92 
To  the  Last  Leaf  ....  Wm.  G.  Crosby  ....  95 
Lines  written  on  the  Ocean  .  C.  L.  Hemans  ....  97 

The  Last  Request     .     .     .     .  B.  B.  Thatcher 99 

Song  of  the  Wintry  Wind  .  Frederic  Mellen  .  .  .  .101 
The  Infant  Samuel  ....  Ephraim  Peabody  .  .  .  105 

'Tis  the  Last  Sun  of  Autumn    The  Editor 107 

Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean  .  .  C.  H.  Browne  ....  108 
*  I  would  not  live  alway'  .  .  William  Cutter  .  .  .  .110 

A  Dirge Robert  Wyman      ...     113 

The  Last  Drought  .     .     .     .    C.  H.  Upton 115 

A  Peace  Hymn Daniel  Dole 117 

Hope,  Faith,  Charity  .     .     .     B.  A.  G.  Fuller    .     .     .     *  118 

The  Little  Graves     ....  Seba  Smith 121 

An  Extract <     Isaac  M'Lellan,  Jn    .     .     .  125 

Stanzas C.  L.  Hemans   ....     127 

Fairy  Land Wm.  B.  Walter  ....  128 

To  my  Mother     .....  The  Editor 130 

The  Dead Geo.  F.  Talbot    .     .     .     .134 

Lyric  Poetry William  Cutter  .     ...     .     138 


CONTENTS.  XIII 

Footsteps  of  Angels  .  .  .  H.  W.  Longfellow  .  .  .141 
Oh !  think  not  that  the  Dream  J.  B.  L.  Soule  ....  144 
The  Withered  Flowers,  .  .  Edmund  Flagg  ....  146 

Demon  of  the  Sea      Elijah  Kellogg,  Jr.     .     .     148 

Sonnet .     .     .    H.  J.  Gardner      .     .     .     .153 

Mental  Beauty R.  H.  Vose 154 

Music  and  Memory      .     .     .    N.  L.  Sawyer      ....  156 

Life William  Cutter       ...     160 

Death  of  an  Infant   ....    Edmund  Flagg   ....  164 

Lines  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  G .  The  Editor 166 

Spirit  Voices G.  W.  Lamb 170 

Gathering  of  the  Covenanters  .  G.  F.  Magoun    ....     172 

What  would  ye  ask  ?    .     .     .    £L  W.  Lamb 175 

An  Air-Chateau Nehemiah  Cleaveland      .     178 

Death  of  Thatcher  ....  Isaac  M'Lellan,  Jr..  .  .  18.1 
.NOTES  185 


BO  WDOIN    POETS. 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    POETRY 


BY    HENRY     W.    LONGFELLOW. 


THERE  is  a  quiet  spirit  in  these  woods, 
That  dwells  where'er  the  gentle  south  wind  blows; 
Where,  underneath  the  white-thorn,  in  the  glade, 
The  wild  flowers  bloom,  or,  kissing  the  soft  air, 
The  leaves  above  their  sunny  palms  outspread. 
With  what  a  tender  and  impassioned  voice 
It  fills  the  nice  and  delicate  ear  of  thought, 
When  the  fast-ushering  star  of  morning  comes 
O'er-riding  the  gray  hills  with  golden  scarf; 
Or  when  the  cowled  and  dusky-sandaled  Eve, 
In  mourning  weeds,  from  out  the  western  gate, 
Departs  with  silent  pace!     That  spirit  moves 
In  the  green  valley,  where  the  silver  brook, 
From  its  full  laver,  pours  the  white  cascade  ; 
And,  babbling  low  amid  the  tangled  woods, 
Slips  down  through  moss-grown  stones  with  endless 
laughter. 


Z  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

And  frequent,  on  the  everlasting  hills, 

Its  feet  go  forth,  when  it  doth  wrap  itself 

In  all  the  dark  embroidery  of  the  storm, 

And  shouts  the  stern,  strong  wind.     And  here,  amid 

The  silent  majesty  of  these  deep  woods, 

Its  presence  shall  uplift  thy  thoughts  from  earth, 

As  to  the  sunshine  and  the  pure  bright  air, 

Their  tops  the  green  trees  lift.     Hence  gifted  bards 

Have  ever  loved  the  calm  and  quiet  shade. 

For  them  there  was  an  eloquent  voice  in  all 

The  sylvan  pomp  of  woods,  the  golden  sun, 

The  flowers,  the  leaves,  the  river  on  its  way, 

Blue  skies,  and  silver  clouds,  and  gentle  winds, — 

The  swelling  upland,  where  the  sidelong  sun 

Aslant  the  wooded  slope,  at  evening,  goes, — 

Groves,  through  whose  broken  roof  the  sky  looks  in, 

Mountain,  and  shattered  cliff,  and  sunny  vale, 

The  distant  lake,  fountains, — and  mighty  trees, 

In  many  a  lazy  syllable,  repeating 

Their  old  poetic  legends  to  the  wind. 

And  this  is  the  sweet  spirit,  that  doth  fill 

The  world  ;  and,  in  these  wayward  days  of  youth, 

My  busy  fancy  oft  embodies  it, 

As  a  bright  image  of  the  light  and  beauty 

That  dwell  in  nature, — of  the  heavenly  forms 

We  worship  in  our  dreams,  and  the  soft  hues 

That  stain  the  wild  bird's  wing,  and  flush  the  clouds 


THE     SPIRIT     OF     POETRY.  6 

When  the  sun  sets.     Within  her  eye 

The  heaven  of  April,  with  its  changing  light, 

And  when  it  wears  the  blue  of  May,  is  hung, 

And  on  her  lip  the  rich,  red  rose.     Her  hair 

Is  like  the  summer  tresses  of  the  trees, 

When  twilight  makes  them  brown,  and  on  her  cheek 

Blushes  the  richness  of  an  autumn  sky, 

With  ever-shifting  beauty.     Then  her  breath, 

It  is  so  like  the  gentle  air  of  Spring, 

As,  from  the  morning's  dewy  flowers,  it  comes 

Full  of  their  fragrance,  that  it  is  a  joy 

To  have  it  round  us, — and  her  silver  voice 

Is  the  rich  music  of  a  summer  bird, 

Heard  in  the  still  night,  with  its  passionate  cadence. 


TO    AN    INFANT 


ON     THE     DAY    OF     ITS     BIRTH 


BY     WILLIAM     B.     WALTER.* 


"  Blest  who  in  the  cradle  die  ! 
Nought  they  knew — oh ! — envied  bliss  — 
Save  a  mother's  soothing  smile, 
Save  a  mother's  tender  kiss." 


AND  thou  art  here,  sweet  Boy,  among 
The  crowds  that  come  this  world  to  throng  ! 
The  loveliest  dream  of  waking  life  ! 
Hope  of  the  bosom's  secret  strife  ! 
Emblem  of  all  the  heart  can  love  ! 
Vision  of  all  that's  bright  above  ! 
Pledge,  promise  of  remember'd  years  ! 
Seal  of  pure  souls,  yet  bought  with  tears  ! 


TO     AN     INFANT.  5 

Hail !  CHILD  OF  LOVE  ! — I  linger  yet 
Around  thy  couch,  where  slumber  sweet 
Hangs  on  thine  eyelids'  living  shroud  ; 
And  thoughts  and  dreamings,  thickly  crowd 
Upon  the  mind,  like  gleams  of  light 
Which  sweep  along  the  darksome  night, 
Lurid  and  strange,  all  fearful  sent 
In  flashings  o'er  the  firmament ! 

Oh  !  wake  not  from  that  tranquil  sleep  ! 
Too  soon  'twill  break,  and  thou  shalt  weep, 
Such  is  thy  destiny  and  doom, 
O'er  this  long  past  and  long  to  come  ; 
Earth's  mockery,  guilt,  and  nameless  wo  ; 
The  pangs  which  thou  can'st  only  know  ; 
All  crowded  in  a  little  span, 
The  being  of  the  creature  Man  ! 

Ah  !  little  deemest  thou  my  child, 
The  way  of  life  is  dark  and  wild  ; 
Its  sunshine,  but  a  light,  whose  play 
Serves  but  to  dazzle  and  betray  ; 
Weary  and  long — its  end,  the  tomb, 
Where  darkness  spreads  her  wings  of  gloom  ! 
That  resting  place  of  things  which  live, 
The  goal,  of  all  that  earth  can  give  ! 
1* 


BOWDOIN     POETS. 

It  may  be,  that  the  dreams  of  fame, 
Proud  Glory's  plume,  the  warrior's  name, 
Shall  lure  thee  to  the  field  of  blood  ; 
There  like  a  god,  war's  fiery  flood 
May  bear  thee  on  !    while  far  above, 
Thy  crimson  banners  proudly  move, 
Like  the  red  clouds  which  skirt  the  sun, 
When  the  fierce  tempest-day  is  done  ! 

Or  lead  thee  to  a  cloistered  cell, 
Where  Learning's  votaries  lonely  dwell ; 
The  midnight  lamp  and  brow  of  care  ; 
The  frozen  heart  that  mocks  despair; 
Consumption's  fires  to  burn  thy  cheek  ; 
The  brain  that  throbs,  but  will  not  break  ; 
The  travail  of  the  soul,  to  gain 
A  name,  and  die — alas  !  in  vain  ! 

Thou  reckest  not  sweet  slumberer,  there, 
Of  this  world's  crimes  ;  of  many  a  snare 
To  catch  the  soul ;  of  pleasures  wild, 
Friends  false — foes  dark — and  hearts  beguiled ; 
Of  Passion's  ministers  who  sway 
With  iron  sceptre,  all  who  stray; 
Of  broken  hearts — still  loving  on, 
When  all  is  lost,  and  changed,  and  gone  ! 


TO     AN     INFANT.  / 

What  is  it,  that  thou  wilt  not  prove  ? 
Power,  Wealth,  Dominion,  Grandeur,  Love — 
All  the  soul's  idols  in  their  turn  ! 
And  find  each  false,  yet  wildly  burn 
To  grasp  at  all — and  love  the  cheat ; 
Smile,  when  the  ravening  vultures  eat 
Into  thy  very  bosom's  core, 
And  drink  up  that — which  is  not  gore  ! 

Thy  tears  shall  flow,  and  thou  shalt  weep 
As  he  has  wept  who  eyes  thy  sleep, 
But  weeps  no  more — his  heart  is  cold, 
Warped,  sickened,  seared,  with  woes  untold. 
And  be  it  so  !   the  clouds  which  roll 
Dark,  heavy  o'er  my  troubled  soul, 
Bring  with  them  lightnings  which  illume, 
To  shroud  the  mind  in  deeper  gloom  ! 

But  no  !  dear  boy,  my  earnest  prayer 
Shall  call  on  heaven  to  bless  thee  here  ! 
Long  may'st  thou  live  to  love  thy  kind — 
Brave,  generous,  of  a  lofty  mind  ! 
Thy  Father  live  again  in  thee, 
Thy  Mother  long  her  virtues  see 
Brightly  reflected  forth  in  thine — 
Her  solace  in  life's  sad  decline. 


BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Sleep  on  !  sleep  on  !  but  oh,  my  soul, 

This  is  not  slumber's  soft  control ! 

Boy  ! — boy  !  awake  ! — that  struggling  cry 

So  faint  and  low — that  agony  ! 

The  long,  sunk,  heavy  gasp  and  groan  t 

And  oh  !  that  desolate,  last  moan  ! — 

My  GOD  !  the  infant  spirit's  gone  ! 

Are  there  no  tears? — dark — dark — alone  f 

'Tis  past !  farewell !  I  little  thought 
The  mockeries  which  my  fancy  wrought, 
From  fate's  dark  book  were  rudely  torn  ! — 
That  clouds  would  darken  o'er  thy  morn  ! 
That  death's  stern  hand  would  sweep  away 
The  flower  just  springing  to  the  day  ! 
But  wounded  hearts,  must  still  bleed  on  ! 
Enough,  enough — GOD'S  WILL  BE  DONE  ! 


THE    TROUBADOUR 


BY     FREDERIC      MELLEN. 


HE  leaned  beneath  the  casement,  and  his  gaze 
Went  forth  upon  the  night,  as  if  his  thoughts 
Held  dark  communion  with  its  secret  shadows  ; 
And  as  the  light  stole  in  among  the  leaves, 
There  might  be  traced  upon  his  marble  brow 
The  lines  that  grief,  not  time,  had  written  there. 
He  rested  on  his  harp,  and  as  his  hand 
Swept  lightly  o'er  the  strings,  its  sadden'd  tone 
Seem'd  like  the  echo  of  some  spirit's  moan. 

Lady  !  the  dark  long  night 

Of  grief  and  sorrow, 
That  knows  no  cheerful  light, 

No  sun-bright  morrow, 


10  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Is  gathering  round  my  heart, 

In  gloom  and  tears, 
That  will  not,  can  not  part, 

For  long,  long  years. 

Oh  !  would  that  thought  could  die  ; 

And  memory 
Pass,  like  the  night-wind's  sigh, 

Away  from  me. 

There  is  a  resting  place, 

Cold,  dark,  and  deep  ; 
Where  grief  shall  leave  no  trace, 

And  misery  sleep. 

Would  I  were  slumbering  there, 

From  life's  sad  dream  ; 
The  tempest's  cold,  bleak  air, 

My  requiem. 

Lady  !  my  harp's  sad  song 

Hath  wing'd  its  flight  ; 
But  still,  its  chords  along, 

Murmurs  my  last  {  good  night ! ' 

— The  melody  had  ceased, — the  harper  gone  ; 
And,  silent  all,  the  waning  night  pass'd  on. 


NIGHT    IN    THE    WOODS. 


BY    EPHRAIM    PEABODY, 


Through  the  openings  in  the  leafy  vaults  looked  down  the 
stars  from  far  above  this  world."     MARY'S  JOURNEY. 


The  unfathomable  cope  of  heaven  ! 

The  deep  and  silent  sky  ! 
Through  the  narrow  forest  opening, 

Looks  down  its  peaceful  eye. 
The  tranquil  stars  pass  o'er  me  one  by  one — 
The  silver  clouds  rise  up — float  o'er — are  gone. 

The  forest  pines  which  circle  round 

Like  dark  towers  at  my  side, 
But  show  the  depths  of  the  dim  vault, 

Where  the  holy  stars  abide. 
Unsounded  void  !  yet  deepening  whilst  I  gaze, 
Till  the  eye  swims  that  through  thy  clear  deep  strays. 


12  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

The  night  is  hushed  like  sleep; — the  roar 

Of  the  great  wilderness  is  still; 
The  breeze  is  sleeping  midst  its  leaves, 

The  brook  beneath  its  hill; 

On  branch  and  leaf  and  in  their  gloomy  shade, 
The  silence  of  eternity  is  laid. 

The  moving  heavens  ! — the  Spirit's  power 

In  glory  bids  them  roll  ; 
The  music  of  the  many  spheres — 
'Tis  sounding  through  the  soul ! 
The  Vast  !  the  Beautiful  ! — in  mystery, 
Deep  in  the  soul's  abyss  unseen  they  lie. 

Sea — heavens — ye  settled  hills  that  lift 

Your  brows  into  the  blue, 
Like  altars  reared  to  God — the  soul 

Is  mightier  than  you, — 

Yea,  gives  you  all  your  glory — gives  the  light, 
Which  lifts  you  up  from  nothingness  and  night. 

Oh  God  !  who  breathed  into  the  soul 

A  power  from  thine  own  power, 
Teach  me  to  know  the  uncounted  worth 

Of  this  celestial  dower  : 

Oh  may  I  ne'er  defile  with  earth  and  sense 
This  image  of  thine  own  Omnipotence. 


ANDRE. 


BY     CHARLES     W  .     U  P  H  A  M  .  * 


BESIDE  iiis  path  the  beauteous  Hudson  rolled 
In  silent  majesty.     The  silvery  mist, 
Like  the  soft  incense  of  an  eastern  fane, 
Went  sparkling  upward,  gloriously  wreathing 
In  the  sun-light.     And  the  keen-eyed  eagle, 
From  his  high  aerie  mid  the  crags,  looked  down 
In  majesty,  where  stood  the  lonely  one, 
In  silence,  musingly  — 

'  Would  it  were  thus 

With  me.     My  spirit  shares  not  now,  as  wont, 
In  the  wild  majesty  of  nature  here. 
Methinks  there  is  some  weight  within,  sinking 
My  better  thoughts.     Would  now  that  I  might  lead 
Some  gallant  battle  charge  —  where  the  wild  trump 
Enkindles  valor,  and  the  free  winds  swell 
My  country's  banner.5 


2 


14  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

It  was  a  lowly  room; 

And  the  stern  heavy  tread,  that  by  the  door 
Went  to  and  fro,  told  it  the  captive's  cell. 
And  he  was  there  ;  the  same,  with  his  high  brow, 
And  soul-disclosing  eye; — and  he  was  doomed: — 
But  on  his  face  a  smile  seemed  gathering, 
And  the  fixed  gaze  marked  that  a  wakeful  dream 
Had  borne  him  far  away.     And  now  he  saw 
His  father's  home,   in  its  old  stateliness, 
Amid  the  bending  trees  ;   and  the  bright  band 
Of  his  young  sisters,  with  their  voices  gay, 
Echoing  there,  like  some  glad  melody. 
And  then  another  form,  bewildering 
Each  thought,  came  rising  up  in  peerless  grace, 
But  dimly  seen,  like  forms  which  sleep  creates. 
His  breath  grew  quicker,  and  his  only  thought 
Dwelt  upon  her,  as  seen  in  that  last  hour, — 
Her  full  dark  eye  on  his,  and  the  closed  lip 
Just  quivering  with  a  tender  smile,  with  which 
The  proud  young  thing  would  veil  her  parting  grief, 
And  check  her  trembling  voice,  that  did  outsteal, 
Like  witching  tones  upborne  upon  the  wind 
Of  summer  night — telling  of  her  high  trust. 
But  suddenly  a  change  was  on  his  face, 
And  then  he  paced  the  room  in  agony 
At  one  dark  thought,     T  was  not  that  he  must  die  ; 
But  that  he  should  not  die  a  soldier's  death  : 


ANDRE.  15 

Alas,  and  shall  she  hear  it,  that  bright  one 
That  ever  saw  him  in  her  dreams,  rise  up 
Like  the  young  eagle  to  the  sun  ? 

*        #        *        *        #        *        # 

The  morning  came, 

And  he  stood  up  to  die; — the  beautiful 
And  brave — the  loved  one  of  a  sunny  home — 
To  die  as  felons  die  ; — yet  proudly  calm, 
With  his  high  brow  unmoved.      And  the  full  soul 
Beamed  in  his  eye  unconquered,  and  his  lip 
Was  motionless,  as  is  the  forest  leaf 
In  the  calm  prelude  to  the  storm.     He  died  ; 
And  the  stern  warriors,  to  his  country  foes, 
Wept  for  his  fate.     And  who,  that  e'er  had  hopes, 
Weeps  not  for  him,  meeting  such  misery 
In  glory's  path  ? 


THE    RAINBOW, 


BY     CHARLES     H.     UPTON 


ETHEREAL  diadem  !  whose  blended  rays 
From  no  meridian  splendor  won — 

Yet  burst,  full-formed,  upon  the  wondrous  gaze, 
A  frontlet  braided  by  the  sun. 

Celestial  smile  !  beneath  whose  beams  the  dove 

Afar  the  olive  branch  descried, 
And  bore  the  emblem  of  returning  love 

Across  the  water's  ebbing  tide. 

Resplendent  arc  !  whose  prism-blended  hues 
First  dwelt  above  with  One  alone, — 

Till  He  the  holy  effluence  did  diffuse 
Around  the  footstool  of  His  throne. 

Sign-manual  of  God  !  inscribed  on  high, 
In  characters  of  glowing  light — 

Where,  on  the  tablet  of  the  vaulted  sky, 
None  but  Divinity  could  write  ! 


WEEP   NOT    FOR    THE    DEAD 


BY    B.     B.     THATCHER. 


OH,  lightly,  lightly  tread 
Upon  these  early  ashes,  ye  that  weep 
For  her  that  slumbers  in  the  dreamless  sleep, 

Of  this  eternal  bed  ! 

Hallow  her  humble  tomb 

With  your  kind  sorrow,  ye  that  knew  her  well, 
And  climbed  with  her  youth's  brief  but  brilliant  dell, 

'Mid  sunlight  and  fair  bloom. 

Glad  voices  whispered  round 
As  from  the  stars, — bewildering  harmonies, — 
And  visions  of  sweet  beauty  filled  the  skies. 

And  the  wide  vernal  ground 

With  hopes  like  blossoms  shone  : 
Oh,  vainly  these  shall  glow,  and  vainly  wreathe 
Verdure  for  the  veiled  bosom,  that  may  breathe 

No  joy — no  answering  tone. 


18  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Yet  weep  not  for  the  dead 
That  in  the  glory  of  green  youth  do  fall, 
Ere  phrenzied  passion  or  foul  sin  one  thrall 

Upon  their  souls  hath  spread. 

Weep  not  !     They  are  at  rest 
From  misery,  and  madness,  and  all  strife, 
That  makes  but  night  of  day,  and  death  of  life, 

In  the  grave's  peaceful  breast. 

Nor  ever  more  shall  come 

To  them  the  breath  of  envy,  nor  the  rankling  eye 
Shall  follow  them,  where  side  by  side  they  lie — 

Defenceless,  noiseless,  dumb. 

Aye — though  their  memory's  green, 
In  the  fond  heart,  where  love  for  them  was  born, 
With  sorrow's  silent  dews,  each  eve,  each  morn, 

Be  freshly  kept,  unseen — • 

Yet  weep  not  !     They  shall  soar 
As  the  freed  eagle  of  the  skies,  that  pined, 
But  pines  no  more,  for  his  own  mountain  wind, 

And  the  old  ocean-shore. 

Rejoice  !  rejoice  !     How  long 
Should  the  faint  spirit  wrestle  with  its  clay, 


FAREWELL.  19 

Fluttering  in  vain  for  the  far  cloudless  day. 
And  for  the  angel's  song  ? 

It  mounts  !     It  mounts  !     Oh,  spread 
The  banner  of  gay  victory — and  sing 
For  the  enfranchised — and  bright  garlands  bring — 

But  weep  not  for  the  dead  ! 


FAREWELL. 


BY     JOHN    B.    L.     SOULE 


"And  there  were  sudden  partings  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts."    CHILDE  HAROLD. 

THERE  is  an  hour — an  hour  of  bliss, 
A  moment  rich  with  happiness, 

When  cares  and  sighs  depart  ; 
When  they  that  love,  approach  to  meet 
The  mutual  welcome,  and  the  sweet 

Response  of  heart  to  heart. 


20  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

There  is  an  hour  of  sadness  too 
When  o'er  our  joys  that  dread  ' adieu' 

Falls  like  a  withering  blast  ; 
When  hands  are  linked  and  fondly  pressed, 
With  heaving  sighs  and  throbbing  breast — 

Those  traitors  of  the  past. 

When  bitter  thoughts  arise  so  strong, 
And  kind  affection  lingers  long 

To  meet  the  last  c  farewell ; ' 
When  flowing  tears  are  freely  sent 
From  struggling  souls,  more  eloquent 

Than  words,  those  thoughts  to  tell. 

'Twas  thus  we  parted — but  a  thrill 
Of  joyful  hope  pervaded  still 

The  grief-impassioned  heart, 
Which  told  of  brighter  hours,  to  be 
From  doubt  and  disappointment  free, 
When  bound  in  sweetest  sympathy 

We  meet — but  not  to  part. 


THE    NOTES    OF    THE    BIRDS 


BY  ISAAC   M'LELLAN,  JR. 


WELL  do  I  love  those  various  harmonies 
That  ring  so  gaily  in  Spring's  budding  woods, 
And  in  the  thickets,  and  green,  quiet  haunts, 
And  lonely  copses  of  the  Summer-time, 
And  in  red  Autumn's  ancient  solitudes. 

If  thou  art    pained  with  the  World's  noisy  stir 
Or  crazed  with  its  mad  tumults,  and  weighed  down 
With  any  of  the  ills  of  human  life; 
If  thou  art  sick  and  weak,  or  mournest  at  the  loss 
Of  brethren  gone  to  that  far-distant  land 
To  which  we  all  do  pass,  gentle  and  poor, 
The  gayest  and  the  gravest,  all  alike — 
Then  turn  into  the  peaceful  woods,  and  hear 
The  thrilling  music  of  the  forest  birds. 


22  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

How  rich  the  varied  choir.     The  unquiet  finch 
Calls  from  the  distant  hollows,  and  the  wren 
Uttereth  her  sweet  and  mellow  plaint  at  times, 
And  the  thrush  mourneth  where  the  kalmia  hangs 
Its  crimson-spotted  cups,  or  chirps  half  hid 
Amid  the  lowly  dog-wood's  snowy  flowers, 
And  the  blue  Jay  flits  by,  from  tree  to  tree  ; 
And  spreading  its  rich  pinions,  fills  the  ear 
With  its  shrill-sounding  and  unsteady  cry. 

With  the  sweet  airs  of  Spring  the  Robin  comes, 
And  in  her  simple  song  there  seems  to  gush 
A  strain  of  sorrow  when  she  visiteth 
Her  last  year's  withered  nest.     But  when  the  gloom 
Of  the  deep  twilight  falls,  she  takes  her  perch 
Upon  the  red-stemmed  hazel's  slender  twig 
That  overhangs  the  brook,  and  suits  her  song 
To  the  slow  rivulet's  inconstant  chime. 

In  the  last  days  of  Autumn,  when  the  corn 
Lies  sweet  and  yellow  in  the  harvest  field, 
And  the  gay  company  of  reapers  bind 
The  bearded  wheat  in  sheaves,  then  peals  abroad 
The  Blackbird's  merry  chant.     I  love  to  hear, 
Bold  plunderer  !  thy  mellow  burst  of  song 
Float  from  thy  watch-place  on  the  mossy  tree 
Close  at  the  corn-field  edge. 


THE     NOTES     OF     THE     BIRDS.  23 

Lone  Whippoorwill  ! 

There  is  much  sweetness  in  thy  fitful  hymn, 
Heard  in  the  drowsy  watches  of  the  night. 
Oft-times  when  all  the  village  lights  are  out 
And  the  wide  air  is  still,  I  hear  thee  chant 
Thy  hollow  dirge,  like  some  recluse  who  takes 
His  lodging  in  the  wilderness  of  woods, 
And  lifts  his  anthem  when  the  world  is  still  : 
And  the  dim,  solemn  night,  that  brings  to  man 
And  to  the  herds,  deep  slumbers,  and  sweet  dews 
To  the  red  roses  and  the  herbs,  doth  find 
No  eye  save  thine  a  watcher  in  her  halls. 
I  hear  thee  oft  at  midnight,  when  the  Thrush 
And  the  green,  roving  Linnet  are  at  rest, 
And  the  blithe,  twittering  Swallows  have  long  ceased 
Their  noisy  note,  and  folded  up  their  wings. 

Far  up  some  brook's  still  course,  whose  current 

mines 

The  forest's  blackened  roots,  and  whose  green  marge 
Is  seldom  visited  by  human  foot, 
The  lonely  Heron  sits,  and  harshly  breaks 
The  Sabbath  silence  of  the  wilderness  : 
And  you  may  find  her  by  some  reedy  pool, 
Or  brooding  gloomily  on  some  time-stained  rock, 
Beside  some  misty  and  far-reaching  lake. 


24  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Most  awful  is  thy  deep,  and  heavy  boom 
Grey  watcher  of  the  waters  !  thou  art  king 
Of  the  blue  lake;  and  all  the  winged  kind 
Do  fear  the  echo  of  thine  angry  cry. 
How  bright  thy  savage  eye  !  Thou  lookest  down, 
And  seest  the  shining  fishes  as  they  glide  ; 
And  poising  thy  grey  wing,  thy  glossy  beak 
Swift  as  an  arrow  strikes  its  roving  prey. 
Oft-times  I  see  thee  through  the  curling  mist 
Dart,  like  a  Spectre  of  the  night,  and  hear 
Thy  strange,  bewildering  call,  like  the  wild  scream 
Of  one  whose  life  is  perishing  in  the  sea. 

And  now  would'st  thou,  O  man  !  delight  the  ear 
With  earth's  delicious  sounds,  or  charm  the  eye 
With  beautiful  creations  ?     Then  pass  forth 
And  find  them  midst  those  many-colored  birds 
That  fill  the  glowing  woods.     The  richest  hues 
Lie  in  their  splendid  plumage,  and  their  tones 
Are  sweeter  than  the  music  of  the  lute, 
Or  the  harp's  melody,  or  the  notes  that  gush 
So  thrillingly  from  beauty's  ruby  lip. 


THE    MOTHER 


PERISHING     IN     A     SNOW-STORM. 

I 


BY     SEBA     SMITH 


"  In  the  year  1821,  a  Mrs.  Blake  perished  in  a  snow-storm 
in  the  night  time,  while  traveling  over  a  spur  of  the  Green 
Mountains  in  Vermont.  She  had  an  infant  with  her,  which 
was  found  alive  and  well  in  the  morning,  being  carefully  wrap- 
ped in  the  mother's  clothing." 


THE  cold  wind  swept  the  mountain's  height, 
And  pathless  was  the  dreary  wild, 

And  'mid  the  cheerless  hours  of  night 
A  mother  wandered  with  her  child. 

As  through  the  drifting  snow  she  pressed, 

The  babe  was  sleeping  on  her  breast. 


26  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

And  colder  still  the  winds  did  blow, 
And  darker  hours  of  night  came  on, 

And  deeper  grew  the  drifting  snow  ; 

Her  limbs  were  chilled  her  strength  was  gone, 

'  Oh,  God  ! '  she  cried,  in  accents  wild, 

'  If  I  must  perish,  save  my  child  ! ' 

She  stripped  her  mantle  from  her  breast, 
And  bared  her  bosom  to  the  storm, 

And  round  the  child  she  wrapped  the  vest, 
And  smiled  to  think  her  babe  was  warm. 

With  one  cold  kiss  one  tear  she  shed, 

And  sunk  upon  her  snowy  bed. 

At  dawn  a  traveler  passed  by, 

And  saw  her  'neath  a  snowy  veil ; 

The  frost  of  death  was  in  her  eye, 

Her  cheek  was  cold,  and  hard,  and  pale;— 

He  moved  the  robe  from  off  the  child, 

The  babe  looked  up  and  sweetly  smiled  ! 


THE    PRAYER 


OF     THE    SCOTTISH     COVENANTERS. 


BY    FRANCIS     HARBOUR. 


HARK  !   from  the  mountain  rock, 

Is  heard  the  voice  of  prayer  ; 
The  hearts  that  seek  the  battle  shock, 

Are  bowed  in  meekness  there. 
The  armory  of  war  is  round, 

Where  once  in  peace  they  trod, 
But  nought  is  heard  of  the  war's  wild  sound, 

They  bow  before  their  God. 

The  voice  of  youth  is  sweet, 

Coming  like  music  thence, 
It  is  a  holy  place,  and  meet 

For  the  prayer  of  innocence. 
As  flowers  which  usher  in  the  spring, 

More  fragrance  will  impart, 
Thus  fresh  and  fair  the  offering, 

From  childhood's  fervent  heart. 


28  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Manhood  has  bent  his  strength, 

In  supplication  now, 
The  fire  of  battle  has  at  length 

Fled  from  his  noble  brow  : 
His  might  has  failed,  but  he  sheds  no  tears, 

Though  earthly  hopes  are  riven  ;  — 
Nor  hosts  of  earth,  nor  aught  he  fears, 

Save  the  holiness  of  heaven. 

"There  are  men  of  whitened  brow" 

Among  that  mountain  clan, — 
The  knee  is  bended  now, 

That  never  bent  to  man, 
Though  o'er  their  sires'  once  happy  soil, 

A  cloud  of  darkness  rolls, 
Yet  tyranny  and  age  and  toil, 

Cannot  subdue  their  souls. 

Their  life's  short,  stormy  day 

Is  waning  to  its  close, 
And  the  soul's  frail  covering  of  cl  ay 

Seeks  for  its  long  repose. 
Though  like  the  rocks  in  their  giddy  height, 

They  have  felt  the  tempest's  rage, 
The  patriot's  fire  in  its  quenchless  might, 

Still  burns  in  the  breast  of  age. 


THE     PRAYEH.  29 

Their  fathers'  spirits  call 

From  the  cliffs  of  their  rugged  clime, — 
They  ne'er  could  brook  a  tyrant's  thrall, 

In  days  of  olden  time  ; — 
And  the  sons  shall  guard,  uncowered  yet, 

The  hearth-stones  of  their  sires, 
And  ne'er  in  treachery  forget 

To  light  their  altar  fires! 

And  fearless  they  engage 

In  the  holy  cause  of  truth, 
The  majesty  of  age, 

And  purity  of  youth. 
And  mighty — holy  is  the  hand, 

That  guards  their  native  sod  ; — 
'Tis  for  the  freedom  of  their  land, 

They  raise  their  souls  to  God. 


THE    BELEAGUERED    CITY 


BY     HENE.Y     W.     LONGFELLOW. 


I  HAVE  read  in  some  old  marvellous  tale, 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague, 

That  a  midnight  host  of  spectres  pale 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldau's  rushing  stream, 
With  the  wan  moon  overhead, 

There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 
The  army  of  the  dead. 

White  as  a  sea-fog,  landward  bound, 
The  spectral  camp  was  seen, 

And,  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 
The  river  flowed  between. 


THE     BELEAGUERED     CITY.  31 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there, 

No  drum,  nor  sentry's  pace  ; 
The  mist-like  banners  clasped  the  air, 

As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 

But,  when  the  old  cathedral  bell 

Proclaimed  the  morning  prayer, 
The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 

On  the  alarmed  air. 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 

The  troubled  army  fled  ; 
Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star, 

The  ghastly  host  was  dead. 

I  have  read,  in  the  marvellous  heart  of  man, 

That  strange  and  mystic  scroll, 
That  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 

Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 

Encamped  beside  Life's  rushing  stream, 

In  Fancy's   misty  light, 
Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 

Portentous  through  the  night. 

Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 
The  spectral  camp  is  seen, 


32  BOWDO  IN     POETS. 

And  with  a  sorrowful,  deep  sound, 
Flows  the  River  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice,  nor  sound  is  there, 

In  the  army  of  the  grave  ; 
No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air, 

But  the  rushing  of  Life's  wave. 

And,  when  the  solemn  and  deep  church-bell 

Entreats  the  soul  to  pray, 
The  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell, 

The  shadows  sweep  away. 

Down  the  broad  Vale  of  Tears  afar 

The  spectral  camp  is  fled  ; 
Faith  shineth  as  a  morning  star, 

Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 


LINES   ON    LEAVING    CASCO 


AN   EXTRACT. 


BY     CHARLES    H.     PORTER 


FRESH  from  my  heart  what  warm  emotions  spring, 

As,  scenes  of  youth,  I  bid  ye  all  adieu  ; 
While  darts  the  steamer  on  her  unseen  wing, 

And  Casco  fades  'neath  evening's  sombre  hue. 
Swift  glides  our  boat  like  magic  o'er  the  wave, 

Dimly  those  shores  are  in  the  twilight  sleeping  ; 
Pass  we  beneath  the  banner  of  the  brave, 

Where  Scammel  o'er  the  port  its  watch  is  keeping. 


Match  me,  ye  dwellers  in  Italia's  land, 

The  hues  that  deck  New  England's  sunset  sky  ! 
Ye  shores  by  Mediterranean  breezes  fanned, 

Tho'  from  your  groves  rich  columns  tower  on  high, 
Though  art  has  made  your  templed  hills  her  home, 

Tho'  Genius  there  hath  reared  her  sculptured  piles, 
Though  from  each  mount  rise  minaret  and  dome — 

Still  do  ye  fail  beside  these  fairy  isles. 


34 


BOWDOIN     POETS. 


Here  have  I  loved  the  glowing  moon  to  watch, 

As  she  seemed  hovering  their  soft  slopes  amid, — 
Like  a  fair  maid,  whose  eye  alone  can  match 

The  sparkling  gems,  beneath  her  robes  half  hid. 
Here  have  I  loved  to  greet  the  purple  dawn, 

And  mark  its  kindling  rays  flash  o'er  the  sea  ; 
Here,  from  the  depths  the  silvery  fish  I've  drawn, 

And  boasted  of  my  skillful  treachery. 

But  cease,  fond  memory  !  for  I  would  not  dwell 

Upon  the  past, — it  only  feeds  regret  ; 
And  as  I  leave  each  spot  I  love  so  well, 

I  would  that  I  could  all  that  past  forget. 
No  !  I  would  not  forget  the  few,  whose  hearts 

Still  kindly  cherished,  though  misfortune  came  ; 
Nor  think  ye  when  from  all  he  now  departs, 

Those  who  proved  false  the  wanderer  would  blame. 

He  can  not  blame  what  every  age  hath  shown 

Is  nature's  weakness,  that  while  Fortune  smiled, 
Friends  flocked  around  him,  but  when  she  had  flown, 

The  most  forsook  adversity's  lone  child. 
And  thou  of  the  warm  heart  and  feelings  true, 

How  did  I  watch  thy  bark's  retreating  sail, 
That  bore  thee  far  across  the  waters  blue, 

To  brave  the  surges'  wrath,  the  sweeping  gale  ; 


LINES     ON     LEAVING     CASCO.  35 

Nor  thought  that  thou  in  a  far  distant  land 

'Mid  strangers'  graves,  unknown,  unmarked 

should  lie, 
That  I  should  never  grasp  again  thy  hand, 

Ne'er  more  should  meet  thy  kindly  beaming  eye. 
Perchance  the  cypress  o'er  thy  grave  is  weaving 

Its  pensive  branches  'neath  the  evening  sky, 
Emblem  of  him  whose  bosom  still  is  heaving 

For  thee,  thou  long  departed  one,  the  sigh. 
*         *         *         *         *         *         * 

Fades  the  last  ray  of  light,  those  isles  have  gone; 

And  now  we  near  the  light-house  on  the  rock — 
From  whose  high  tower  the  beacon  long  hath  shone 

Thro'  fair  and  foul,  'mid  calm  and  tempest-shock! 
Oft  when  on  high  the  midnight  winds  were  howling, 

And  waves  were  breaking  madly  into  foam  ; 
When  the  dark  sky  with  horrid  gloom  was  scowling 

'Mid  lightning  flash  and  thunder's  sullen  boom; 

The  sea-tossed  mariner  has  hailed  that  light, 

With  sympathetic  ray  upon  him  beaming  ; 
Nor  cared  how  wild  the  storm — how  murk  the  night, 

So  that  one  lamp  were  o'er  his  pathway  streaming. 
And  the  lone  fisher-boy  upon  the  billow, 

Rocked  in  his  wherry  boldly  rowed  from  shore, 
Nor  thought  how  far — he  feared  no  briny  pillow — 

While  his  eye  hailed  that  star,  the  dark  wave  o'er. 


36  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

As  is  the  heart  we  turn  to  in  our  youth, 

When  every  feeling  kindles  fond  desire, 
As  to  the  Christian  is  the  light  of  truth — 

So  for  the  sailor  burns  that  beacon  fire. 
There  may  it  stand  while  billows  rage  around, 

Long  o'er  the  darkened  waters  may  it  shine, 
To  save  the  mariner  from  the  fatal  ground 

Where  snaring  rocks  lurk  'neath  the  foaming  brine. 

As  he  who  kindles  there  its  lonely  ray 

When  sober  evening  gathers  o'er  the  ocean, 
Has  often  spied  it  on  his  stormy  way, 

And  viewed  it  as  a  shrine,  with  rapt  devotion  ; 
So  now,  safe  moored  beyond  the  rifted  rock, 

May  he  ne'er  fail  to  light  that  guiding  star, 
Remembering  how  amid  the  tempest's  shock 

He  hailed  it,  trembling  o'er  the  wave  afar. 


Hail  lucid  star  !  thou  first  of  eve's  bright  train! 

Softly  thy  rays  steal  o'er  the  limpid  wave  : 
Com'st  thou,  lone  messenger  upon  the  main, 

To  weep  above  some  hero's  ocean  grave  ? 
Would  I  could  think  while  drinking  in  thy  beams, 

That  there  was  one  whose  heart  was  truly  mine  ; 
One,  whose  bright  form  might  hover  o'er  my  dreams, 

Whose  love  like  thee  might  o'er  my  pathway  shine ! 


LINES     ON     LEAVING     CASCO.  37 

But  ah  !  it  may  not  be; — and  yon  lone  cloud 

Now  like  a  veil  upon  thee,  reads  the  fate 
Of  this,  thy  worshipper.     My  heart  is  bowed 

Even  as  a  reed — and  I  must  imitate 
Thee,  and  retire  among  the  unfeeling  crowd, 

Chaining  within  my  breast  both  love  and  hate, 
Walking  with  humble  step  among  the  proud, 

Despising  not  the  low,  nor  envying  the  great. 


Fair  land  adieu  !  alone  I  pace  the  deck, 

And  watch  with  saddened  heart  thy  less'ning  shore, 
Though  there  I've  seen,  of  brightest  hopes  the  wreck, 

And  care  not  now,  what  fortune  hath  in  store. 
Though  foreign  climes  should  greet  my  wandering 
way, 

Though  'twere  my  fate  to  plough  the  foaming  sea, 
Yet  wheresoe'er  on  land  or  wave  I  stray, 

Fond  memory  often  shall  revert  to  thee. 


THE    TELL-TALE    FACE 


BY     WILLIAM     CUTTER. 


I  HATE  the  frigid  notions, 

Which  seem  to  count  it  sin, 
To  show  the  kind  emotions 

True  kindness  works  within  ; 
Those  manners  cold  and  guarded 

With  words  dealt  out  by  rule, 
Pronounced  just  as  mamma  did, 

Or  Madame  F ,  at  school. 

I  wonder  how  the  ladies, 

Dear  angels  that  they  are  ! 
Can  live  where  so  much  shade  is 

Their  loveliness  to  mar  ! 
Were  they  fairer  than  the  graces, 

And  wiser  than  the  light, 
Such  cold,  such  moonlight  faces, 

Would  put  young  love  to  flight. 


THE     TELL-TALE     FACE.  39 

I  love  the  playful  fancies 

Of  an  unsuspecting  heart, 
That  speak  in  songs  and  glances, 

Unchecked  by  rules  of  art  : 
I  love  the  face,  that  speaketh 

Of  all  that's  in  the  mind  ; 
The  brow,  the  eye,  that  taketh 

Its  hue  from  what's  behind. 

These  are  the  voice  of  nature, 

The  language  of  the  soul  ; 
Words  change,  but  o'er  the  feature, 

Guile  may  not  have  control : 
The  tongue  may  tell  of  feelings, 

Which  may  be — or  may  not  ; 
But  the  eye  hath  sure  revealings 

Of  the  deeply  hidden  thought. 

I  love  that  quick  expression, 

Which  flashes  the  full  eye, 
When  truth  would  make  confession, 

While  modesty  would  lie ; 
Those  warm,  those  heavenly  blushes, 

That  crimson  brow  and  cheek, 
When  feeling's  fountain  gushes 

With  thoughts  it  dares  not  speak. 


40  BOWDOINPOETS. 

Those  shades  that  come  unbidden 

From  every  passing  cloud, 
With  tales  of  care  deep  hidden 

'Neath  merry  looks  and  proud  ; 
The  sudden  gleam  of  pleasure 

From  brow  and  eye  and  lip, 
That  tells  the  heart  hath  treasures 

It  scarce  knows  how  to  keep. 

These,  these  are  voices  given, 

For  soul  to  speak  with  soul, — 
As  true  to  truth  and  heaven, 

As  the  needle  to  the  pole. 
I  bow  to  wit  and  beauty, 

I  almost  worship  grace, — 
But  I  owe  especial  duty 

To  an  honest  tell-tale  face. 


STANZAS 


BY     BENJAMIN     A.     ff.     FULLER. 


OH  no  !  I  would  not  wish  to  die 

When  life  had  but  begun, 
When  scarce  its  morning  light  had  dawned, 

To  see  its  setting  sun  ; 
I  would  not  aught  should  rudely  dash 

The  sparkling  cup  away, 
Ere  yet  I'd  tasted  of  the  draught 

Which  deep  within  it  lay  ; 
Nor  would  I  that  this  bud  of  life 

Just  opening  into  bloom, 
Should  blight  beneath  some  withering  blast, 

And  lose  its  sweet  perfume. 
4* 


42  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Ye  tell  me  cares  and  sorrows  throng 

As  life  wears  on  apace, 
That  all  our  infant  hopes  and  joys 

Time's  touch  will  soon  efface  ; 
Ye  say  that  youth's  delusive  dreams 

Shall  shortly  flee  away, 
And  vanish  like  the  crystal  dew 

Before  the  morning  ray  ; 
That  every  flower  which  decks  the  path 

Of  childhood's  blooming  morn, 
Shall  wither  'neath  some  chilling  frost 

And  leave  alone  the  thorn. 


But  wish  ye  from  its  parent  stem 

The  new-born  rose  to  rend, 
Because  its  beauty  may  not  last, 

Its  brightness  soon  must  end  ? 
And  would  ye  darkly  shroud  from  earth 

The  rainbow's  gorgeous  light, 
Because  its  transient  hues  must  pass 

Full  quickly  from  the  sight  ? 
Wish  ye  to  stay  the  rising  sun 

Within  his  ocean  bed, 
Lest  haply  ere  his  course  be  run 

Some  cloud  should  veil  his  head  ? 


STANZAS.  43 

O,  wish  not  then  thine  own  fresh  bud 

Were  wrested  from  its  stem, 
The  living  casket  broke  which  holds 

Thy  spirit's  peerless  gem  ; 
I  know  that  life's  a  chequered  scene 

Of  sunlight  and  of  shade, 
With  dreary  Gloom  and  wild  Despair 

'  Gainst  Joy  and  Hope  arrayed  ; 
'Tis  true  that  dark  and  woful  storms, 

At  times  may  thickly  crowd 
O'er  Pleasure's  fair  and  sunny  heaven, 

Its  brightness  to  enshroud. 


But  it  is  good  that  man  should  tread 

The  varied  path  of  Time, 
And  dwell  where  circling  seasons  turn, 

Beneath  the  changing  clime  ; 
For  are  not  storm  and  calm  alike 

The  gift  of  boundless  Love  ? 
And  light  and  shade — come  they  not  down 

From  the  same  source  above  ? 
— The  new-born  soul,  like  budding  fruit, 

So  tender  in  its  spring, 
Demands  alike  the  sun  and  storm 

For  its  full  ripening. 


44  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Ye  say  the  weary  spirit  faints, 

By  feverish  strife  opprest, 
And  sighs  to  spread  its  seraph  wings 

For  mansions  of  the  blest ; 
That  yearns  the  soul  to  cast  aside 

This  mantling  fold  of  clay, 
And  wing  sublime  its  sunward  course 

To  hail  the  perfect  Day  ; 
To  stretch  its  flight  to  angel-realms 

Where  earthly  trials  cease, 
There  in  the  smile  of  God  to  find 

A  heaven  of  endless  Peace. 


Hath  then  this  lower  world  no  charm, 

No  beauty  for  thine  eye  ? 
Doth  nature  wake  in  thy  young  breast 

No  wish  save  that  to  die  ? 
Is  earth  to  thee  a  gloomy  home, — 

A  desert  dark  and  drear, — 
A  'rayless  cell'  where  stealeth  in 

No  beam  of  light  to  cheer  ? — 
Oh,  cast  thy  sorrowing  eye  around, — 

What  golden  glories  shine  ! 
All  echoing  to  the  voice  of  God, 

Proclaiming  "earth  is  mine!" 


STANZAS.  45 

On  every  tiny  flower  and  leaf 

Is  Beauty's  name  engraved, 
On  hill,  and  vale,  and  pearl-paved  shores 

By  sparkling  waters  laved, 
JMid  templed  groves,   and  verdant  fields, 

Where  rest  night's  crystal  tears, 
Which  morn  lights  up  like  glitt'ring  gems, 

Her  fairy  touch  appears  ; 
On  the  broad  dome  spread  out  above, 

By  starry  radiance  lit, 
In  glowing  hues  of  living  light 

Its  Maker's  praise  is  writ. 


Oh,  then,  let  every  murmuring  thought 

Be  silenced  in  its  birth  : 
Should  man,  short-sighted  man,  contend 

Against  his  lot  on  earth  ? 
Young  hours  are  filled  with  mirth  and  glee  ; — 

Oh,  then,  why  conjure  up 
A  throng  of  fancied  future  ills 

To  poison  pleasure's  cup  ? 
So  God  may  bid,  I'll  gladly  tread 

Life's  path  of  joy  or  pain, 
And  full  of  years,  at  harvest-time, 

Fall  like  the  ripened  grain. 


TO    A    SISTER 


ABOUT    TO    EMBARK    ON   A    MISSIONARY   ENTERPRISE. 


EY     B.     B  .     THATCHER. 


O  SISTER  !  sister  !  hath  the  memory 
Of  other  years  no  power  upon  thy  soul, 
That  thus,  with  tearless  eye,  thou  leavest  me — 
And  an  unfaltering  voice — to  come  no  more  ? 
Hast  thou  forgot,  friend  of  my  better  days, 
Hast  thou  forgot  the  early,  innocent  joys 
Of  our  remotest  childhood  ;  when  our  lives 
Were  linked  in  one,  and  our  young  hearts  bloomed 

out 

Like  violet  bells  upon  the  self-same  stem, 
Pouring  the  dewy  odors  of  life's  spring 
Into  each  other's  bosom — all  the  bright 
And  sorrowless  thoughts  of  a  confiding  love, 
And  intermingled  vows,  and  blossoming  hopes 
Of  future  good,  and  infant  dreams  of  bliss, 


TOASISTER.  47 

Budding  and  breathing  sunnily  about  them, 
As  crimson-spotted  cups,  in  spring  time,  hang 
On  all  the  delicate  fibres  of  the  vine  ? 

And  where,  O,  where  are  the  unnumbered  vows 
We  made,  my  sister,  at  the  twilight  fall, 
A  thousand  times,  and  the  still  starry  hours 
Of  the  dew-glistening  eve — in  many  a  walk 
By  the  green  borders  of  our  native  stream, 
And  in  the  chequered  shade  of  these  old  oaks—- 
The moonlight  silvering  o'er  each  mossy  trunk, 
And  every  bough,  as  an  Eolian  harp, 
Full  of  the  solemn  chant  of  the  low  breeze  ? 
Thou  hast  forgotten  this — and  standest  here, 
Thy  hand  in  mine,  and  hearest,  even  now, 
The  rustling  wood,  the  stir  of  falling  leaves, 
And — hark  ! — the  far  off  murmur  of  the  brook  ! 

Nay,  do  not  weep,  my  sister  ! — do  not  speak — 
Now  know  I,  by  the  tone,  and  by  the  eye 
Of  tenderness,  with  many  tears  bedimmed, 
Thou  hast  remembered  all.     Thou  measurest  well 
The  work  that  is  before  thee,  and  the  joys 
That  are  behind.     Now,  be  the  past  forgot — 
The  youthful  love,  the  hearth-light  and  the  home, 
Song,  dance,  and  story,  and  the  vows — the  vows 
That  we  change  not,  and  part  not  unto  death — 


48  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Yea,  all  the  spirits  of  departed  bliss, 

That  even  now,  like  spirits  of  the  dead, 

Seen  dimly  in  the  living  mourner's  dreams, 

And  trilling,  ever  and  anon,  the  notes 

Long  loved  of  old — O  hear  them,  heed  them  not. 

Press  on  !  for,  like  the  fairies  of  the  tale, 

That  mocked,  unseen,  the  tempted  traveler, 

With  power  alone  o'er  those  who  gave  them  ear, 

They  would  but  turn  thee  from  thy  high  resolve. 

Then  look  not  back  !    O,  triumph  in  the  strength 

Of  an  exalted  purpose  !    Eagle-like, 

Press  sunward  on.     Thou  shall  not  be  alone. 

Have  but  an  eye  on  God,  as  surely  God 

Will  have  an  eye  on  thee — press  on  !  press  on  ! 


THE    SKATER'S    SONG 


BY     EPHRAIM     PEABODY. 


AWAY  !  away  ! — our  fires  stream  bright 

Along  the  frozen  river, 
And  their  arrowy  sparkles  of  brilliant  light 

On  the  forest  branches  quiver. 
Away,  away,  for  the  stars  are  forth, 

And  on  the  pure  snows  of  the  valley, 
In  a  giddy  trance  the  moonbeams  dance — 

Come  let  us  our  comrades  rally. 

Away,  away,  o'er  the  sheeted  ice, 

Away,  away,  we  go  ; 
On  our  steel-bound  feet  we  move  as  fleet 

As  deer  o'er  the  Lapland  snow. 
What  though  the  sharp  north  winds  are  out 

The  skater  heeds  them  not  ; 
Midst  the  laugh  and  shout  of  the  joyous  rout 

Gray  winter  is  forgot. 

5  * 


50  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

'Tis  a  pleasant  sight,  the  joyous  throng 

In  the  light  of  the  reddening  flame, 
While  with  many  a  wheel  on  the  ringing  steel 

They  wage  their  riotous  game  : 
And  though  the  night-air  cutteth  keen, 

And  the  white  moon  shineth  coldly, 
Their  homes  I  ween,  on  the  hills  have  been, 

They  should  breast  the  strong  blast  boldly. 

Let  others  choose  more  gentle  sports, 

By  the  side  of  the  winter's  hearth, 
Or  at  the  ball  or  the  festival, 

Seek  for  their  share  of  mirth  ; 
But  as  for  me,  away,  away, 

Where  the  merry  skaters  be, 
Where  the  fresh  wind  blows  and  the  smooth 
ice  glows, — 

There  is  the  place  for  me. 


OGILVIE. 


BY     WILLIAM     B.     WALTER 


"  Thou  lookest  from  thy  towers  to-day ;  yet  a  few  seasons 
and  the  blast  of  the  desert  comes  ;  it  howls  in  thy  empty  court 
and  whistles  round  thy  half-worn  shield." 

THERE  is  a  wail  of  sorrow  spread 

Far  o'er  the  waters  deep  ! — 
Scotland  !  we  know  thy  son  is  dead, 

And  we  with  thee  would  weep. 
Oh  !  there  are  dreams  we  look  upon — 

A  presence  loved,  is  past  ! 
It  speaks  of  memories  that  are  gone. 

All  lovely  to  the  last  ! 

And  art  thou  gone,  bright  spirit, 

To  thine  eternal  place  ? 
Shalt  thou  no  more  inherit 

The  splendors  of  thy  race  ? — 
Dost  thou  no  longer  smile  at  fate, 

Wandering  on  earth  alone  ? — 
And  is  the  temple  desolate, 

The  shrine  and  spirit  gone  ? — 


52  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Thine  was  a  name  to  cherish, 

Thou  gifted  one  and  proud  ! 
Not  doomed  from  earth  to  perish 

With  the  poor  common  crowd ! 
Bright  Honor  and  fair  Courtesy, 

Last,  of  a  noble  line  ! 
The  glow  of  ancient  Chivalry, 

Great  heart  !  were  ever  thine. 

Thy  life,  a  splendid  vision, 

That  now  has  passed  away  ! — 
Majestic,  bright,  elysian, 

The  glory  of  a  day  ! — 
Oh  !  brighter  than  the  coronet, 

Thy  virtues'  living  rays  ! — 
They  beam  upon  our  memories  yet, 

Son  of  the  winged  days  ! 

To  realms  of  silence  banished, 

Hurled  from  his  burning  throne, 
The  imperial  bird  is  vanished, 

And  rent  his  radiant  zone  ! — 
Still  are  the  lips,  all  eloquent, 

That  charmed  our  raptured  ears — 
The  thunder  of  the  firmament  ! 

The  music  of  the  spheres  ! 


OGILVIE.  53 

The  wild  birds  now  are  nesting, 

On  his  lone  turrets  high  ! — 
And  there  the  stork  is  resting 

From  her  long  flight,  in  the  sky  ! 
Faded  the  ravished  bowers, 

Where  he  was  wont  to  roam  ; 
In  ruins  heaped  the  towers, 

That  once  he  called  his  home. 

All  sadly  lone  and  desolate  ! 

No  banner's  pomp  is  seen  ! 
Where  monarchs  sat  enthroned  in  state, 

Dark  Ruin's  scythe  has  been  ! 
But  Friendship  and  Affection, 

Shall  long  their  vigils  keep, 
With  wakening  recollection 

To  mourn  his  dreamless  sleep  ! 


JT  is  past !  we  gather  flowers, 
Sweet  flowers  of  earliest  bloom — 

Bright  emblems  of  departed  hours, 
To  hang  around  his  tomb  ! 
5* 


AUTUMN. 


BY  ISAAC   M'LELLAN,  JR 


'  Round  Autumn's  mouldering  urn, 
Loud  mourns  the  chill  and  cheerless  gale, 
When  nightfall  shades  the  quiet  vale, 

And  stars  in  beauty  burn.' — LONGFELLOW. 


Now  in  the  fading  woods,  the  Autumn  blast 
Chants  its  old  hymn, — a  melancholy  sound  ! 

And  look  !  the  yellow  leaves  are  dropping  fast, 
And  earth  looks  bleak  and  desolate  around. 

The  flowers  have  lost  their  glorious  scent  and  bloom, 
And  shiver  now  as  flies  the  tempest  by  ; 

To  some  far  clime  hath  flown  the  wild  bird's  plume, 
To  greener  woods,  and  some  serener  sky. 


AUTUMN.  55 

The  reaper's  sheaf  hath  now  grown  white  and  thin  ; 

The  bearded  wheat,  and  golden  ear  of  corn, 
The  jocund  husbandmen  have  gathered  in  ; 

And  from  the  fields  the  seedy  hay  is  borne. 

The  orchards  all  have  showered  their  treasures  down, 
In  many  a  pile  of  crimson  and  of  gold  ; 

There  will  be  wealth  of  sparkling  juice  to  crown, 
The  foamy  glass  when  the  Year's  death  is  knolled. 

Still  are  these  barren-hills  !  save  when  the  tree 
Falls  'neath  the  far-off  woodman's  measured  stroke; 

Or  when  the  squirrel  chatters  noisily, 
Or  carrion  crow  screams  from  the  leafless  oak. 

Methinks  there's  something  sad  in  thy  decay, 
Oh  !  merry-hearted  Autumn  !  like  a  man 

Whose  head  is  in  his  prime  of  years  turned  gray, 
The  red  cheek  in  a  little  hour  made  wan  ! 

Poet !  doth  no  regret  o'ercast  thy  dream, 
To  see  the  good  old  Autumn  thus  depart  ? 

And  gloom  fast  darkening  Summer's  golden  gleam, 
E'en  as  afflictions  change  the  cheerful  heart. 


56  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Even  as  I  follow  to  his  lowly  bed, 

The  ashes  of  some  kind,  and  well-beloved  friend, 
So  with  a  saddened  eye  and  mournful  tread, 

I  see  thee,  Autumn  !  to  oblivion  tend. 

Yet  beautiful  are  thy  last  fleeting  days, 

When  glows  the  hectic  on  thy  dying  cheek  ; 

When  leaves  are  red,  clouds  bright,  and  hangs  the 

haze 
In  many  a  colored  fold,  of  gaudy  streak. 

I  hear  the  voice  of  Autumn  !  the  deep  dirge 
Hymned  plaintively  within  his  ruined  hall, 

Its  solemn  sound  comes  like  the  beating  surge, 
Or  thunder  of  the  distant  water-fall ! 


PAUL    AT    ATHENS 


BY     THE     EDITOR. 


THE  day  stole  over  Athens. — From  his  rest 
Went  forth  a  stranger  through  the  silent  streets, 
To  catch  the  breathings  of  the  lifting  morn 
As  it  came  up  in  glory  and  enwrapped 
In  mantlings  of  rich  light,  the  old  renowned — 
The  city  of  Minerva  ! — The  unclouded  sky 
Hung,  like  the  canopy  of  the  third  heavens, 
O'er  the  glad  hills  of  Attica, — the  wind 
Stirred  lightly  sea-ward,  as  he  mounted  on 
To  reach  the  old  Acropolis, — and  the  breath 
From  far  Hymettus  and  the  thyme-grown  hills, 
Came  to  his  sense  deliciously. — He  stood 
At  length,  amid  the  Parthenon,  that  reared 
Its  yet  unbroken  columns  awfully 
Around — and  gazed  in  wonder  ! 


58  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Far  abroad, 

The  old  ^Egsean  with  its  cradled  isles 
Stretched  dimmingly  away — or  stirred 
To  a  slight  ruffle,  by  the  morning  breeze, 
Sent  back  the  day  king's  radiance,  in  a  shower 
Of  dazzling  light !     '  Twas  passing  glorious  ! 
The  queen  of  cities  in  her  pristine  pride, 
Lay  in  the  splendor  of  her  marble  fanes 
And  glittering  domes  beneath  him,  and  the  Bay 
Fresh  in  perennial  greenness,  gave  its  breath 
Of  odors  to  the  winds, — and  olive  groves 
In  their  just  time  of  flowering,  clustered  there 
On  storied  hills  and  by  the  classic  shores 
Of  swift  Ilissus  ! — Who,  that  hath  a  soul 
Shaped  for  communion  with  the  high 
And  glorious  of  Nature's  living  forms, 
And  with  the  chaste  and  beautiful  of  Art, — 
And  who  had  read  of  old  Philosophy, 
And  caught  the  fire  from  Homer's  burning  page- 
Might  not  have  felt  emotion's  deepest  thrill 
Stir  in  his  bosom  then  ! 

And  such  his  soul 

Who  stood  within  the  Athenian  citadel. 
Yet  came  that  pageant  to  his  heedless  eye 
In  very  mockery  !     His  heart  grew  sick 
Amidst  the  glitter  of  Pentelic  piles — 


PAUL     AT     ATHENS.  59 

The  pomp  and  splendor  of  a  God-less  world  ! 
He  turned  him  from  that  height  away,  and  bent 
His  step,  with  a  stern  brow  and  burdened  heart, 
To  the  great  city's  din. 

And  as  he  urged 

His  faltering  way  amid  the  tumult  crowds, 
That  thronged  the  altars  of  her  hand-wrought  gods, 
A  gilded  mockery — his  spirit  stirred 
Within  him,  that  the  city  thus  were  wrapped 
In  mad  idolatry  ! — How  much  the  heart 
Whose  homage  riseth  to  the  living  God, 
Burns  inly,  as  the  wayward  sons  of  men 
Turn  to  their  soul-less  idols  ! 

JTwas  high  noon. 

The  Apostle  had  gone  forth  with  holy  zeal, 
Girt  with  the  panoply  of  prayer  and  faith — 
And  stood  within  the  Forum.     Science  there 
Had  gathered  her  stern  votaries. — The  learned — 
The  rich  nobility  of  Athens  lounged 
In  the  cool  porticoes  and  olive  groves, 
That  clustered  round  the  Agora  and  gave 
A  shelter  from  the  sultry  noon-tide  sun  ! 
The  stranger  walked  amid  the  multitudes, 
And  listed  the  deep  hum  of  mingled  tones 
That  came  from  thousand  voices,  till  his  soul 
Yearned  for  an  utterance  !  And  mingling  there 
With  old  Athense's  proud  Philosophers, — 


60  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Stoic  and  Epicurean — he  made  known 
The  high  and  holy  mysteries  of  his  faith, 
And  taught  of  Christ. 

Oh  !  that  in  science'  halls, 
Where  oft  philosophy  hath  been  enshrined, 
Might  live  in  its  unbending  energy — 
The  spirit  of  a  Paul  ! 

And  yet  they  turned, 

And  mocked  him.     Jewish  infidel,  outcast 
Of  Israel, — and  dark  idolaters  of  Greece, 
Laughed  him  to  scorn  alike  !     Yet  earnestly 
He  plead — and  his  firm  tone  and  dauntless  mien, 
Stern  in  a  holy  recklessness,  inspired 
Awe  in  the  multitude. — They  gathered  round 
To  list  the  c  babbler's  '  words — the  c  setter  forth  ' 
Of  new  and  strange  divinities,— until  room 
Failed  in  the  Market-place. 

Then  leading  forth, 

They  brought  him  to  the  Areopagus, — 
With     strange,  half-mocking  curiosity, 
Bade  him  proclaim  his  doctrines. — Then  stood  up 
That  man  of  God,  and  glancing  heavenward 
The  fervent  but  unspoken  prayer  for  strength, 
Looked  on  the  multitudes. 


PAUL     AT    ATHENS.  61 

The  city's  throng 

Pressed  up — eager  to  catch  his  words — and  bent 
The  ear  to  listen,  as  the  holy  man, 
Fervid  in  the  deep  eloquence  of  truth, 
And  strong  in  might  of  the  Eternal  God 
Broke  forth  C¥E  MEN  of  ATHENS  ' — and  accused 
Philosopher  and  ignorant,  alike, 
Of  superstition. 

Oh  !  that  the  learned, 

And  those  the  world  call  GREAT,  might  never  awe 
The  Messenger  of  God  ! 

And  Paul  went  on, 

And  with  that  wisdom  that  is  born  of  heaven, 
Borrowed  their  own  inscription,  and  declared 
To  them  the  mysteries  of  the  '  UNKNOWN  GOD,  ' 
Whom  ignorant  they  worshipped,  and  proclaimed 
Judgment  and  Resurrection.     But  they  turned — 
Aye,  for  the  truth  their  own  Philosopher, 
The  half-divine  old  Socrates,  had  taught, — •' 
They  turned  and  scoffed  !     Firmly  are  wedded  thus 
These  earth-bowed  hearts  to  their'  idolatry. 

How  vain  is  human  lore  !     Science  may  wreathe 
Her  choicest  coronals  on  brows  that  bend 
In  adoration  at  her  stoic  shrine, — 
And  Intellect  may  revel  in  its  strength, 
6 


62  BOWDOIN     POETS, 

Through  mazes  of  a  dark  philosophy, 

Proud  in  its  high  enthronement, — and  learn  not. 

Its  truest  glory — its  high  destiny  ! 

It  goes  not  out  on  the  strong  wing  of  faith 

To  the  great  SOURCE  of  Intellect,  nor  soars 

With  holy  longings  for  IMMORTAL  LIFE  ! 

*         *         *         *         #         *         * 

5Tis  but  an  f  UNKNOWN  GOD  '  the  darkened  soul 
Reads  in  the  dim  revealings  of  the  earth, 
And  star-bright  sky — till  the  broad  radiance 
Of  heavenly  truth  beam  like  the  glorious  sun 
On  the  dark  face  of  nature,  kindling  up 
The  dew-dropped  forest  leaf  and  opening  flower 
To  glittering  letters  on  the  earth-spread  page,— 
And  light  each  else  dark  wanderer  of  heaven, 
To  shine  his  glory  and  to  speak  his  praise  ! 

Perchance  there  whispers  in  the  soul  a  voice, 
A  (  still  -small  voice  '  that  speaks  of  Deity — 
And  answering  tones  from  nature's  thousand  tongues. 
May  fall  upon  the  dull,  scarce-heeding  ear, 
Like  zephyr's  soft  sussurus,  lightly  audible, — 
And  thus  grow  up  before  the  soul's  veiled  eye7 
Some  dim  and  shadowy  outline  of  a  God  ! 
'Twas  thus  at  old  Athense.       They  had  bent 
In  dark  devotion  at  the  gilded  shrines 
Of  gods  that  fancy  fashioned,  till  arose 


PAUL     AT     ATHENS.  63 

On  all  her  olive  hills  high-columned  fanes — 
The  pride  of  art — the  temples  of  Idolatry  ; 
And  Superstition,  like  a  dark-winged  deity, 
Brooded  in  madness  o'er  them  !     Still  there  came 
The  silent  tokening  of  an  '  UNKNOWN  GOD  ' 
Who  habited  in  space,  and  guided  on 
In  their  majestic  march  the  rolling  orbs, 
And  wrought  the  silent  harmony  that  breathes 
Thro'  nature's  'vast  profound.'     But  Paul  must  raise 
The  voice  of  an  interpreter,  and,  taught 
By  high  communing  with  his  God,  declare 
The  TEKEL  of  their  finger-written  walls, 
And  fling  a  sunlight  through  their  misted  dreams! 

And  oh  !  a  blacker  shroud  doth  wrap  the   eye, 

That  fain  would  pierce  the  darkness  of  the  tomb 

And  scan  the  pathways  of  Eternity  ! 

The  spirit  shuddereth  to  die,  and  yearns 

For  an  existence  when  the  grave  hath  claimed 

Its  tabernacled  clay. — Yet  earth-enthralled, 

The  soul's  inherent  strength  availeth  not 

Firmly  to  grasp  the  idol  of  its  dreams, 

Till — on  the  pinion  of  a  soaring  Faith, 

And  with  the  piercing  telescope  of  heaven, 

THE  SACRED  ORACLES — to  point  it  home — 

It  mounts,  to  tread  with  a  strong  footstep  there 

The  vestibule  of  the  Celestial  Courts  ! 


VENETIAN    MOONLIGHT 


BY    FREDERIC     MELLEN.* 


THE  midnight  chime  had  tolled  from  Marco's  towers, 
O'er  Adria's  wave  the  trembling  echo  swept, 

The  gondolieri  paused  upon  their  oars, 

Muttering  their  prayers  as  through  the  still  night/ 
crept. 

Far  o'er  the  wave  the  knell  of  time  was  borne. 
Till  the  sound  died  upon  its  tranquil  breast  ; 

l*he  sea-boy  started  as  the  peal  rolled  on, 
Gazed  at  his  star  and  turned  himself  to  rest. 

The  throbbing  heart  that  late  had  said  farewell, 
Still  lingering  on  the  wave  that  bore  it  home, 

At  that  bright  hour  sighed  o'er  the  dying  swell, 
And  thought  on  years  of  absence  yet  to  come. 


VENETIAN     MOONLIGHT.  65 

Twas  moonlight  on  Venetia's  sea, 
And  every  fragrant  bower  and  tree 

Smiled  in  the  glorious  light  : 
The  thousand  isles  that  clustered  there 
Ne'er  in  their  life  looked  half  so  fair 

As  on  that  happy  night. 

A  thousand  sparkling  lights  were  set 
On  every  dome  and  minaret  ; 

While  through  the  marble  halls 
The  gush  of  cooling  fountains  came, 
And  crystal  lamps  sent  far  their  flame, 

Upon  the  high-arched  walls. 

But  sweeter  far  on  Adria's  sea, 
The  gondolier's  wild  minstrelsy 

In  accents  low  began ; 
While  sounding  harp  and  martial  zell, 
Their  music  joined,  till  the  rich  swell 

Seemed  heaven's  wide  arch  to  span. 

Then  faintly  ceasing — one  by  one, 
That  plaintive  voice  breathed  on  alone, 

Its  wild,  heart-soothing  lay  : 
And  then  again  that  moon-light  band, 
Started,  as  if  by  magic  wand, 

In  one  bold  burst  away. 
6* 


06  -BO  WDOIN     POETS. 

The  joyous  laugh  came  on  the  breeze, 
And,  mid  the  bright,  o'er-hanging  trees, 

The  mazy  dance  went  round  ; 
And,  as  in  joyous  ring  they  flew, 
The  smiling  nymphs  the  wild  flowers  threw, 

That  clustered  on  the  ground. 

Soft  as  a  summer  evening's  sigh, 
From  each  o'er-hanging  balcony, 

Low,  fervent  whisperings  fell : 
And  many  a  heart  upon  that  night 
On  fancy's  pinion  sped  its  flight, 

Where  holier  beings  dwell. 

Each  lovely  form  the  eye  might  see, 
The  dark-browed  maid  of  Italy, 

With  love's  own  sparkling  eyes  : 
The  fairy  Swiss — all — all  that  night 
Smiled  in  the  moon-beam's  silvery  light, 

Fair  as  their  native  skies. 

The  moon  went  down,  and  o'er  that  glowing  sea, 
With  darkness,  Silence  spread  abroad  her  wing. 
Nor  dash  of  oars,  nor  harp's  wild  minstrelsy, 
Came  o'er  the  waters  in  that  mighty  ring. 
All  nature  slept — and,  save  the  far-off  moan 
Of  ocean  surges,  Silence  reigned  alone. 


ST.    JOHN    IN   EXILE 


BY     ANDREW     DUNNING. 


DEATH  was  decreed,  or  banishment, 

to  all  of  Christian  faith, 
And  he  stood  before  the  Roman  power, 

for  exile,  or  for  death. 
The  weakness  of  declining  years 

was  all  forgotten  now  ; 
He  stood  erect  with  fearless  eye, 

and  an  unquailing  brow. 
Though  storms  might  break  in  darkness  round, 

there  was  an  arm  to  save, 
Through  faith  he  trode  the  lifting  seas, 

for  Christ  was  on  the  wave. 
Amid  the  war  of  elements, 

he  saw  the  rainbow  dyes 
Arching  in  bows  of  promise  sure, 

across  the  frowning  skies. 


68  EOWDOIN     POETS. 

The  clouds  hung  heavy  o'er  his  head, 

but  sunlight  in  his  soul, 
Darted  athwart  the  fearful  gloom, 

and  richly  tinged  the  whole. 

He  gazed  upon  the  soldier  guard, 

with  spear  and  waving  crest  ; 
And  the  thronging  mass  of  bloody  men 

that  round  him  thickly  prest  ; 
Calm  and  undaunted  was  his  gaze, 

and  through  the  troubled  air, 
Went  up  from  his  confiding  heart, 

the  spirit-whispered  prayer. 
His  heart  was  fixed, — his  faith  was  firm, 

for  he  leaned  upon  the  breast 
Of  his  beloved  Savior  still, 

and  felt  the  promised  rest. 
The  stern  decree  of  banishment 

to  Patmos'  lonely  shore, 
Was  circled  with  celestial  light, 

and  tints  of  glory  bore. 
'Twas  joy  to  leave  a  treacherous  world, 

'twas  happiness  to  meet 
Far  from  the  faithlessness  of  man, 

a  solitude  so  sweet. 
'Twas  joy  to  share  the  angry  scorn 
by  persecutors  poured, 


ST.    JOHN     IN     EXILE.  69 

Upon  that  consecrated  band, 

the  followers  of  the  Lord. 
He  would  not  shield  his  aged  frame 

from  vengeance  or  from  death, 
By  coward  act  of  perfidy — 

denial  of  the  faith. 
Deny  the  faith  !  nay  !  it  was  bound 

unto  the  spirit's  life  ; 
The  gnarled  oak  is  not  more  firm, 

amid  the  whirlwind  strife. 
Death  was  the  portal  to  the  skies, 

but  treachery  would  be 
Parting  the  anchorage  of  hope 

for  all  eternity  ! 

O,  tyrant  of  a  trembling  world  ! 

how  weak  thy  puny  arm  ; 
The  body's  life  is  in  thy  power, 

the  soul's  thou  canst  not  harm  ! 
Thy  manacles  may  cramp  these  limbs, 

thou  may'st  destroy  this  clay  ; 
There  thy  authority  must  end, — 

the  spirit  spurns  thy  sway  ! 
When  thou  canst  curb  the  lightning's  track, 

or  hush  the  winds  to  peace  ; 
Fetter  the  free-winged  elements, 

bid  ocean's  roar  to  cease  ; 


70  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Arrest  the  sun  in  mid-day  course, 
the  wheels  of  nature  bind  ; 

Then  may'st  thou  fling  thy  chains  around, 
the  unconquerable  mind. 

Oh  !  false  the  thought  that  gloomy  fears 

on  the  Christian's  rest  intrude, 
When  shut  from  a  corrupting  world, 

in  quiet  solitude. 
Congenial  spirits  from  above, 

stoop  downward  to  his  prayer, 
And  come  on  wings  of  holy  Jove, 

to  sojourn  with  him  there. 

And  he  who  left  the  city's  throng, 

to  seek  his  island  home  ; 
Left  but  a  wilderness  behind, 

through  paradise  to  roam. 
He  stepped  upon  the  rocky  strand, 

and  bade  the  world  farewell  ; 
Angels,  and  heaven,  and  God,  came  down 

with  him  on  earth  to  dwell. 
Nature  in  all  her  varied  charms 

to  him  was  given  yet, 
The  marvels  and  the  pomps  of  heaven, 

with  earth's  in  concord  met. 


ST.    JOHN     IN     EXILE.  71 

Far  in  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 

c  Greece,  living  Greece  '  appeared, 
And  there  the  '  clustering  Cyclades  '  round, 

their  forms  of  beauty  reared  : — 
Vibrations  of  a  thousand  strings, 

in  music  met  his  ear  ; 
The  glorious  canopy  of  stars, 

the  sky  serenely  clear  : 
The  winds  and  waters  whispered  peace 

upon  the  lonely  shore, 
And  white-winged  spirits  of  repose 

Brooded  its  stillness  o'er. 


But  views  of  loftier,  holier  things, 

to  him  were  granted  there. 
The  New-Jerusalem  appeared, 

in  dazzling  splendor  crowned  ; 
Bright  jasper  walls,  with  gates  of  pearl, 

encircled  it  around. 
The  future  glories  of  the  Church 

in  vision  were  revealed  ; 
And  mingling  songs  of  earth  and  heaven, 

in  swelling  peans  pealed. 
The  reign  of  error  long  usurped, 

was  prostrate  o'er  the  world  ; 


BOWD01N     POETS. 

And  the  banners  of  redeeming  love, 
triumphantly  unfurled. 

This  was  the  exile's  solitude- 
celestial  visions  given  ; 

Communion  with  the  world  denied, 
communion  held  with  heaven  ! 


THE    DELUGE 


AN     EXTRACT. 


BY     WILLIAM     G.     CROSBY 


THE  birds  had  sought  the  silence  of  the  woods, 
And  the  beasts  crouched  them  in  their  solitudes  ; 
Man  hurried  to  and  fro  with  pallid  cheek, 
And  wandering  eyes,  such  as  in  terror  speak 
Unutterable  things  : — no  voice  was  heard, 
Save  as  some  falling  leaf  the  drooping  foliage  stirred. 

There  was  a  silence  brooding  o'er  the  earth, 
Like  that  which  heralds  the  young  earthquake's 

birth. 

Dark  clouds  were  sweeping  slowly  o'er  the  sea, 
And  far  above,  a  blackened  canopy 
Shut  out  the  last  rays  of  the  sickly  sun  ; — 
The  eternal  voice  went  forth — the  work  of  death 
begun  ! 

7 


74  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Then  pealed  the  thunder  of  offended  Heaven  \ 
The  trembling  earth  from  its  deep  centre  riven, 
Sent  forth  one  wild  and  agonizing  cry, 
Its  bursting  waters,  rushing  to  the  sky  : — 
The  lightnings  met  them  in  their  midway  path, 
And  bore  them  back  to  earth,  stern  ministers  of  wrath. 

Then  rose  one  loud,  last  shriek  ! — the  torrent 

poured, 

And  death's  dark  angel  o'er  the  ruin  soared, — 
Echoed  each  struggling  prayer,  each  mad'ning  cry, 
And  mocked  his  victims  in  their  agony  ! 
Hope  with  her  mimicry  of  smiles  had  fled, 
And  Ruin  hovered  wide  above  the  countless  dead. 

There  lay  the  mother  round  whose  lifeless  breast, 
Clung  the  loved  babe  her  dying  arms  had  pressed; 
And  there,  half  shrouded  in  her  golden  hair, 
Floated  the  wreck  of  all  that  once  was  fair  ; 
While  he,  whose  arm  in  vain  was  stretched  to  save, 
Slept  many  a  fathom  deep  beneath  the  howling  wave. 


LOVE'S   BLIND. 


BY     CHARLES     H.     PORTER 


*' LOVE'S  Blind,"  they  say, — an  olden  rule — 
But  he  who  made  it  was  a  fool  ; 
And  they  who  trust  him  are  not  wise, 
Love  rather  hath  a  thousand  eyes. 

"Love's  blind,"  they  say  : — who  think  they  find 
Truth  here,  but  prove  themselves  are  blind  : 
If  so,  how  could  his  arrows  fly 
With  such  unerring  certainty  ? 

I  thought  so,  till  from  Stella's  eye 
The  villain  let  an  arrow  fly  ; — 
It  came  so  straight  I  could  not  flee — 
And  proved  full  well  that  love  can  see. 

Then  all  beware  : — that  love's  a  rogue 
He'll  either  come  to  you  incog.  ; 
Or  else  he'll  say  to  you  "I'm  blind," 
And  thus  an  easy  entrance  find. 


TO    THE   AUTHOR'S  WIFE, 

ABSENT     ON     A     VISIT. 


BY     SEBA     SMITH. 


COME  home  my  dear  Elizabeth  ; 

I'm  sure  could  you  but  know 
The  sadness  of  my  lonely  hours, 

You  would  not  leave  so. 

If  love  could  not  restrain  you, 
Sure  the  kindness  of  your  heart 

Would  not  allow  that  mine  so  long 
Should  feel  this  aching  smart. 

Like  the  dove  that  found  no  resting 
On  the  weary  waters  wide, 

I  wander,  but  I  find  no  rest 
Apart  from  thee,  my  bride. 


TO    THE   AUTHOR'S   WIFE.  77 

Yes  bride  I  still  must  call  thee, 
Though  sixteen  years  have  fled, 

Fraught  with  the  ills  and  joys  of  life, 
Since  the  day  that  saw  us  wed. 

Yes  bride  I  still  must  call  thee, 

For  still  I  feel  thou  art 
The  morning  light  unto  mine  eyes, 

And  the  life-blood  to  my  heart. 

Kind  friends  may  be  around  me, 

With  gentle  words  and  tone, 
And  all  the  light,  gay  world  may  smile, 

But  still  I  am  alone. 

The  bright  bird  that  you  left  me, 
Chirps  often  through  the  day, 

And  his  music  but  reminds  me 
That  you  are  far  away. 

For  your  sake  I  will  feed  him 

With  fresh  seeds  and  with  flowers, 

And  his  morning  and  his  evening  song 
Shall  count  my  weary  hours. 


78  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

And  oft  our  little  Edward 
Comes  clinging  to  my  knee, 

And  says  with  loud  and  hearty  laugh, 
'Dear  Father,  play  with  me.' 

And  when  I  kiss  his  little  cheek, 
His  bright  blue  eyes  look  glad; 

And  I  talk  with  him  and  play  with  him, 
But  still  my  heart  is  sad. 

My  sun  of  life,  Elizabeth, 

Hath  passed  its  fervent  noon  ; 

I  feel  the  'sear  and  yellow  leaf 
Will  be  upon  me  soon  : — 

But  though  misfortunes  press  me, 
And  the  world  be  false  and  cold, 

Let  thy  love  and  presence  bless  me 
And  I'll  mind  not  growing  old. 

And  I'll  mind  not  fortune's  frowning, 
Nor  the  heartlessness  of  men, 

When  I  see  thee  home  returning, 
Our  abode  to  cheer  again. 


JACOB'S    FUNERAL 


Y    CHARLES     W.     TJPHAM.* 


A  TRAIN  came  forth  from  Egypt's  land, 

Mournful  and  slow  their  tread  ; 
And  sad  the  leader  of  that  band — 

The  bearers  of  the  dead. 
His  father's  bones  they  bore  away, 

To  lay  them  in  the  grave 
Where  Abraham  and  Isaac  lay, 

Macpelah's  sacred  cave. 

A  stately  train,  dark  Egypt's  pride, 

Chariot  and  horse  are  there  ; 
And  silently,  in  sorrow  ride 

Old  men  of  hoary  hair. 
For  many  days  they  passed  along 

To  Atad's  threshing  floor, 
And  sang  their  last  and  saddest  song 

Upon  the  Jordan's  shore. 


80  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

And  Atad  saw  the  strangers  mourn, 

That  silent,  wo-clad  band, — 
And  wondered  much  whose  bones  were  borne, 

Thus  far  from  Pharaoh's  land. 
They  saw  the  chieftain's  grief  was  sore, — 

He  wept  with  manly  grace  ; — 
They  called  that  spot  forevermore 

Misraim's  mourning  place. 

They  passed  the  wave  that  Jacob  passed, 

His  good  staff  in  his  hands,* — 
They  passed  the  wave  that  Jacob  passed 

With  his  returning  bands. 
'Twas  when  he  met  upon  his  path 

His  brother's  wild  array, 
And  fled,  for  fear  his  ancient  wrath 

Might  fall  on  him  that  day. 

*  Gen.  xxxii,  10. 


VESPERS. 


BY    FRANCIS    BARBOUR.* 


The  hour  of  prayer  ! 

Within  the  crowded  chancel,  while  the  shroud 
Of  night  comes  down  upon  the  poor  and  proud, 

Low  bended  there. 

Perchance  there  be 
Some  lowly  worshippers  at  eventide, 
Breathing  their  humble  prayer,  on  some  hill-side 

By  the  deep  sea  : 

Or  in  the  drear 

And  rayless  coverts  of  the  pathless  woods, 
With  scarce  a  stream  to  glad  their  solitudes, 

Or  light  to  cheer. 


82  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

And  suppliant  now, 
At  altars  beaten  by  tempest's  shock, 
At  some  rude  cross  upon  the  rifted  rock, 

They  humbly  bow. 

A  chastening  power 

Falls  like  the  coming  of  an  angel's  spell, 
O'er  the  calmed  spirit,  when  the  shadows  tell 

The  evening  hour. 

Thus  at  the  close 

Of  life's  short  day,  may  its  receding  light 
Which  led  us  on,  be  peaceful,  calm  and  bright, 

As  when  it  rose. 

And  may  no  fear 

Upon  our  hearts  a  trembling  record  trace, 
And  may  we  go  to  our  long  resting  place 

Without  a  tear. 


BURIAL   OF    THE    MINNISINK 


BY     HENRY     W.    LONGFELLOW 


ON  sunny  slope  and  beechen  swell, 
The  shadowed  light  of  evening  fell  ; 
And  where  the  maple's  leaf  was  brown, 
With  soft  and  silent  lapse  came  down 
The  glory  that  the  wood  receives, 
At  sunset,  in  its  brazen  leaves. 

Far  upward  in  the  mellow  light 

Rose  the  blue  hills.     One  cloud  of  white, 

Around  a  far  uplifted  cone, 

In  the  warm  blush  of  evening  shone  ; 

An  image  of  the  silver  lakes, 

By  which  the  Indian's  soul  awakes. 


84  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

But  soon  a  funeral  hymn  was  heard, 
Where  the  soft  breath  of  evening  stirred 
The  tall,  gray  forest  ;   and  a  band 
Of  stern  in  heart,  and  strong  in  hand, 
Came  winding  down  beside  the  wave, 

To  lay  the  red  chief  in  his  grave. 

I 

They  sang,  that  by  his  native  bowers 
He  stood,  in  the  last  moon  of  flowers, 
And  thirty  snows  had  not  yet  shed 
Their  glory  on  the  warrior's  head  ; 
But,  as  the  summer  fruit  decays, 
So  died  he  in  those  naked  days. 

A  dark  cloak  of  the  roebuck's  skin 
Covered  the  warrior,  and  within 
Its  heavy  folds  the  weapons,  made 
For  the  hard  toils  of  war,  were  laid  ; 
The  cuirass,  woven  of  plaited  reeds, 
And  the  broad  belt,  of  shells  and  beads. 

Before,  a  dark-haired  virgin  train 
Chanted  the  death  dirge  of  the  slain  ; 
Behind,  the  long  procession  came 
Of  hoary  men  and  chiefs  of  fame, 
With  heavy  hearts,  and  eyes  of  grief, 
Leading  the  war-horse  of  their  chief. 


BURIAL     OF     THE     MINNISINK.  85 

Stripped  of  his  proud  and  martial  dress, 
Uncurbed,  unreined,  and  riderless. 
With  darting  eye,  and  nostril  spread, 
And  heavy  and  impatient  tread, 
He  came  ;  and  oft  that  eye  so  proud 
Asked  for  his  rider  in  the  crowd. 

They  buried  the  dark  chief;    they  freed 
Beside  the  grave  his  battle  steed  ; 
And  swift  an  arrow  cleaved  its  way 
To  his  stern  heart !     One  piercing  neigh 
Arose, — and,  on  the  dead  man's  plain, 
The  rider  grasps  his  steed  again. 


THE   VICTIM. 


BY     HENRY     W.    FULLER,     JR. 


I  KNEW  her  when  a  playful  girl, 
With  sunny  cheek  and  brow — 

Her  flowing  hair  and  glossy  curl 
I  well  remember  now. 

For  her  I  plucked  the  sweetest  flower, 

And  earliest  of  the  fruit, 
And  sought  rich  shells  upon  the  shore 

To  string  about  her  lute. 

I  saw  her  when  the  simple  days 
Of  childhood  all  were  o'er, 

As  unaffected  in  her  ways, 
And  perfect  as  before. 


THE     VICTIM.  87 

She  was  the  brightest  gem  I  met 

Within  the  halls  of  mirth, 
And  every  feature  was  so  sweet, 

I  deemed  her  not  of  earth. 


Her  fairy  form  and  buoyant  air 

Bespoke  a  spirit  free  ; 
And  graceful  as  the  gossamer 

She  passed  away  from  me. 

I  saw  her  next  in  holy  hour 
Float  up  the  sacred  aisle, 

And  with  the  FAITHLESS  kneel  before 
The  altar-place  awhile. 

I  saw  the  priest,  the  book,  the  ring, 
And  heard  the  vows  they  spake, 

I  knew  he  did  a  heartless  thing — 
He  vowed  but  to  forsake. 

With  bounding  step  I  saw  her  go 

In  splendor  to  her  home, 
Without  a  shade  of  present  wo, 

Or  fear  of  aught  to  come. 


88  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

But  oh  !  a  change  !  that  once  bright  eye 
Disclosed  a  burdened  soul  ; 

For  he  who  shared  her  destiny, 
Bowed  at  the  maddening  bowl. 

Ye  who  have  seen  affliction  steal 
The  health-glow  from  the  cheek, 

When  eye  and  brow  and  step  reveal 
What  lip  may  never  speak, — 

Chide  not,  that  o'er  the  early  sleep 

Of  one  so  soon  at  rest, 
I  pause  in  sympathy  to  weep, 

Upon  the  grave's  green  breast. 


THE    WABASH 


Y     JOHN     B.     L.     SOULE 


SOFT,  silent  Wabash  !  on  thy  sloping  verge 
As  fixed  in  thought,  I  stay  my  wandering  feet, 
And  list  the  gentle  rippling  of  thy  surge, 
What  moving  spirits  do  my  fancy  greet  ; — 
What  flitting  phantoms  from  thy  breast  emerge, 
Forms  for  the  shrouded  sepulchre  more  meet  ! 

In  thy  dark  flowing  waters,  I  would  see 
More  than  is  wont  to  fix  the  transient  gaze 
Of  vulgar  admiration,  though  there  be 
Enough  to  wake  the  poet's  sweetest  lays 
In  all  thy  silent  beauty  ; — for  to  me 
Thou  hast  a  voice — a  voice  of  other  days. 

a« 


90  BOWD01N     POETS. 

Nor  can  I  look  upon  thee  with  a  heart 
Unmoved  by  the  intrusive  thoughts  of  sadness, 
While  fancy  pictures  thee  not  as  thou  art, 
But  what  thou  hast  been,  when  the  tones  of  gladness, 
Were  heard  upon  thy  borders,  ere  the  smart 
Of  stern  Oppression  turned  that  joy  to  madness  ! 

How  oft  upon  thy  undulating  breast 
The  light  pirogue  hath  skimmed  its  silent  way, 
When  nature  all  around  had  sunk  to  rest, 
And  long  had  faded  the  last  beam  of  day  : 
And  still  it  onward  leaped  the  moonlit  crest 
And  dashed  delighted  through  the  silver  spray. 

Urged  by  the  spirit  of  revenge  and  hate, 
The  savage  tenant  knit  his  fiery  brow — 
And  fanned  the  flame  he  knew  not  to  abate 
Save  by  the  unwearied  chase  and  deadly  blow, 
Toiling  with  ceaseless  energy  to  sate 
His  vengeance  on  some  far,  devoted  foe  ! 

Perchance  secluded  in  yon  green  retreat, 
Some  lordly  chieftain,  in  his  pride  of  power, 
Hath  lingered  oft  in  rapturous  thought  to  meet 
His  dark-eyed  goddess  at  the  sunset  hour, 
Where  wanton  zephyrs  dance  with  flitting  feet, 
And  kiss  in  gambols  rude  each  blushing  flower. 


THE     WABASH.  91 

Here  with  the  green  wood  for  his  temple  dome, 
This  fragrant  bank  his  consecrated  shrine  — 
Mayhap  the  pious  votary  oft  hath  come, 
On  nature's  breast  his  sorrows  to  resign  ; 
From  day's  dull  avocations  far  to  roam 
With  gazing  on  such  loveliness  as  thine  ! 

Soft,  silent  Wabash  !  thy  still  waters  glide 
All  heedless  of  my  meditative  lay  ! 
But  from  the  tranquil  beauty  of  thy  pride, 
I'll  glean  such  moral  teachings  as  I  may  : — 
Howe'er  may  vary  Fortune's  fickle  tide, 
Like  thee  in  sweet  content  I'll  wend  my  peaceful 
way. 


THE   HAUNTED    WOOD 


BY  ISAAC    M'LELLAN.   JR. 


I  OFTEN  come  to  this  lonely  place, 

And  forget  the  stir  of  my  restless  race  ; 

Forget  the  woes  of  human  life, 

The  bitter  pang  and  the  constant  strife, 

The  angry  word  and  the  cruel  taunt, 

The  sight  and  the  sound  of  guilt  and  want, 

And  the  frequent  tear  by  the  widow  shed, 

When  her  infant  asks  in  vain  for  bread. 

All  these  I  put  from  my  mind  aside, 

And  forget  the  offence  of  worldly  pride. 

It  is  said  that  the  Spirits  of  buried  men 
Oft  come  to  this  wicked  world  again  ; 
That  the  churchyard  turf  is  often  trod 
By  the  unlaid  tenants  of  tomb  and  sod, 
That  the  midnight  sea  itself  is  swept, 
By  those  who  have  long  beneath  it  slept. 


THE     HAUNTED     WOOD.  93 

And  they  say  of  this  old,  mossy  wood, 
Whose  hoary  trunks  have  for  ages  stood, 
That  every  knoll  and  dim-lit  glade 
Is  haunted  at  night  by  its  restless  Shade. 

It  is  told  that  an  Indian  King,  whose  name 
Hath  perished  long  from  the  scroll  of  fame, 
And  whose  thousand  warriors  slumber  low, 
In  equal  rest,  with  the  spear  and  bow, 
Was  wont  to  pursue  the  fallow  deer, 
And  hold  his  feasts,  and  make  merry  here, 
And  seek  his  repose  in  the  noontide  heat, 
By  this  noisy  brook  at  my  very  feet — 
And  here,  at  the  close  of  his  sternest  strife, 
He  finished  his  rude,  and  unquiet  life. 

It  is  said  that  on  moonlight  nights,  the  gleam 
Of  his  battle  Spear  flits  o'er  this  stream  ; 
And  they  say  there's  a  shiver  along  the  grass 
Where  the  restless  feet  of  the  Spectre  pass, 
And  a  rustle  of  leaves  in  the  thicket's  gloom 
When  he  nods  his  dusky  eagle  plume. 
And,  methinks,  I  have  heard  his  war-horn  bray, 
Like  the  call  of  waters  far  away  ; 
And  the  arrow  whistle  along  the  glade 
Where  the  chieftain's  giant  bones  are  laid. 


94  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

And  yonder,  where  the  gray  willows  lave 
Their  silvery  tassels  beneath  the  wave, 
By  the  hollow  valley's  lonely  tide, 
You  may  find  the  grave  of  a  Suicide. 
And  'tis  said,  at  the  noon  of  a  dewy  night, 
When  the  hills  are  touched  with  the  silver  light, 
That  a  spirit  leans  o'er  that  lonely  turf, 
Like  a  snowy  wreath  of  the  o'cean  surf, 
And  a  sound  like  a  passionate  mourner's  cry, 
Will  often  startle  the  passer  by. 


TO    THE    LAST   LEAF 


BY     WILLIAM     G.     CROSBY. 


LONE  trembling  one  ! 

Last  of  a  summer  race,  withered  and  sear, 
And  shivering — wherefore  art  thou  lingering  here  ? 

Thy  work  is  done. 

Thou  hast  seen  all 

The  summer  flowers  reposing  in  their  tomb, 
And  the  green  leaves  that  knew  thee  in  their  bloom, 

Wither  and  fall  ! 

The  voice  of  Spring, 

Which  called  thee  into  being,  ne'er  again 
Will  greet  thee — nor  the  gentle  Summer  rain 

New  verdure  bring. 


96  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

The  Zephyr's  breath 

No  more  will  wake  for  thee  its  melody — 
But  the  lone  sighing  of  the  blast  shall  be 

Thy  hymn  of  death. 

Yet  a  few  days, 

A  few  faint  struggles  with  the  autumn  storm, 
And  the  strained  eye  to  catch  thy  quivering  form, 

In  vain  may  gaze. 

Pale  autumn  leaf! 
Thou  art  an  emblem  of  mortality. 
The  broken  heart,  once  young  and  fresh  like  thee, 

Withered  by  grief, — 

Whose  hopes  are  fled, 

Whose  loved  ones  all  have  drooped  and  died  away. 
Still  clings  to  life — and  lingering  loves  to  stay, 

Above  the  dead  ! 

But  list — even  now, 

I  hear  the  gathering  of  the  wintry  blast  ; 
It  comes — thy  frail  form  trembles — it  is  past  ! 

And  so  art  thou  ! 


LINES 


WRITTEN     ON     THE     OCEAN, 


BY     CLAUDE     L.     HEMANS. 


THOU  dreary  sea  whose  wide  expanse 
Lies  stretched  beneath  the  farthest  glance, 
Not  all  in  vain  thy  waters  roll 
Their  deadening  influence  o'er  the  weary  soul. 

They  still  the  pulse  of  care  and  strife, 
That  wasteful  spend  the  lamp  of  life, 
The  haunts  of  men  forgotten  seem, 
The  far  off  shores  are  as  some  faded  dream. 

Not  always  thus,  thou  treacherous  deep, 
In  stern  repose  thy  strength  shall  sleep  ; 
Soon  from  thy  slumber  thou  wilt  burst, 
And  soon  with  greedy  rage  for  hapless  victims  thirst. 


98  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

How  glorious  is  the  sense  sublime, 
Awakened  in  that  awful  time, 
When  howling  o'er  thy  gloomy  waste 
The  midnight  gale  careers  with  furious  haste. 

Then,  then,  thou  wakest  in  thy  wrath, 
Along  the  wild  wind's  foaming  path — 
That  lifts  the  trembling  vessel  o'er 
The  surge  of  booming  waves  that  lash  her  sides  and 
roar. 

Thou  haughty  sea,  thy  fearful  might 
Cannot  my  steadfast  heart  affright, 
My  swelling  bosom  knows  no  fear 
Amid  the  thrilling  scenes  proclaiming — God  is  here! 

There  liveth  One  beneath  whose  eye, 
Where  faith  shone  blent  with  majesty, 
Thine  angry  billows  straitway  sank  afraid, 
And  of  that  look  serene  a  faithful  mirror  made. 

His  power  thy  raging  shall*  control, 
Thy  restless  waves  shall  cease  to  roll, 
And  the  fierce  wind  shall  moaning  flee  away, 
Like  some  fell,  baffled  beast  that  scents  the  'scaped 
prey. 


THE    LAST    REQUEST 


BY     BENJAMIN     B.     THATCHER. 


BURY  me  by  the  ocean's  side — 
Oh  !  give  me  a  grave  on  the  verge  of  the  deep, 

Where  the  noble  tide 
When  the  sea-gales  blow,  rny  marble  may  sweep — 

And  the  glistering  turf 

Shall  burst  o'er  the  surf, 
And  bathe  rny  cold  bosom  in  death  as  I  sleep  ! 

Bury  me  by  the  sea — 
That  the  vesper  at  eve-fall  may  ring  o'er  my  grave, 

Like  the  hymn  of  the  bee, 
Or  the  hum  of  the  shell,  in  the  silent  wave  ! 

Or  an  anthem  roar 

Shall  be  rolled  on  the  shore 
By  the  storm,  like  a  mighty  march  of  the  brave  ! 


100  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Bury  me  by  the  deep — 
Where  a  living  footstep  never  may  tread  ; 

And  come  not  to  weep — 
Oh  !  wake  not  with  sorrow  the  dream  of  the  dead, 

But  leave  me  the  dirge 

Of  the  breaking  surge, 
And  the  silent  tears  of  the  sea  on  my  head  ! 

And  grave  no  Parian  praise  ; 
Gather  no  bloom  for  the  heartless  tomb, — 

And  burn  no  holy  blaze 
To  flatter  the  awe  of  its  solemn  gloom  ! 

For  the  holier  light 

Of  the  star-eyed  night, 
And  the  violet  morning,  my  rest  will  illume  : — 

And  honors  more  dear 
Than  of  sorrow  and  love,  shall  be  strown  on  my  clay 

By  the  young  green  year, 
With  its  fragrant  dews  and  crimson  array. — 

Oh  !  leave  me  to  sleep 

On  the  verge  of  the  deep, 
Till  the  skies  and  the  seas  shall  have  passed  away  ! 


SONG    OF    THE    WINTRY    WIND 


BY     FREDERIC     MELLEN.* 


Away ! 

"We  have  outstaid  the  hour — mount  we  our  clouds  ! 

MANFRED. 

<  ADIEU  !  adieu  !  '  thus  the  storm  spirit  sang, 

'  Adieu  to  the  southern  sky  ; ' 
And  the  wintry  wind  that  round  him  rang, 

Caught  up  the  unearthly  minstrelsy. 
'Adieu  !  adieu  !  to  its  flood's  bright  gleams, 
Its  waving  woodlands,  its  thousand  streams.' 

'  Off!  off ! '  said  the  spirit;  like  the  whirl  wind's  rush 

His  snow-wreathed  car  was  gone  ; 
And  their  cold  white  breath  came  down  the  night, 

As  his  startled  steeds  sped  on. 
Yet  the  night  wind's  dirge  o'er  the  changing  year, 
Fell  slowly  and  sadly  upon  the  ear. 
9» 


102  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

'Twas  the  song  of  woe, — of  that  wintry  wind, 

As  the  laughing  streams  ran  by, 
And  lingered  around  the  budding  trees, 

Once  clothed  in  its  own  chaste  livery. 
Its  tones  were  sad,  as  it  sunk  its  wing, 
And  this  was  its  simple  offering  : 

Farewell!  to  the  sun-bright  South  ; 

For  the  Summer  is  hastening  on  ; 
And  the  Spring  flowers  bright  in  their  fragrant  youth, 

Mourn  not  for  the  Winter  gone. 

'But  when  days  have  passed,  and  I  come  again, 
Their  forms  shall  have  died  away  ; 

And  mine  must  it  be  their  cold  shroud  to  twine, 
From  the  snow  curls  that  o'er  them  lay. 

*  Farewell  !  to  the  sun-bright  South  ; 

To  its  midnight  dance  and  its  song  ; 
For  each  heart  is  out  for  the  Summer  breeze, 

As  it  sports  in  its  mirth  along. 

'And  the  student  hath  lifted  his  pallid  brow, 

To  list  to  its  soothing  strain  ; 
But  oft  shall  they  sigh  in  the  parching  heat, 

For  the  wintry  wind  again. 


SONG    OF     THE    WINTRY    WIND.  103 

*  Farewell  !  to  the  sun-bright  South  ; 

To  the  chime  of  its  deep,  deep  sea  ; 
To  its  leaping  streams,  its  solemn  woods, 

For  they  all  have  a  voice  for  me. 

'  Farewell !  to  its  cheerful,  its  ancient  halls, 

Where  oft  in  the  days  of  old, 
When  the  waning  embers  burnt  low  and  dim, 

And  dark  strange  stories  were  told  ; 

'My  hollow  moans  at  the  casement  bars, 

Stole  in  like  a  sound  of  dread  ; 
And  the  startled  ear  in  its  lonely  sigh, 

Heard  the  voice  of  the  sheeted  dead. 

'  But  the  days  are  passed — the  hearth  is  dim, 

And  the  evening  tale  is  done  ; 
'Mid  the  green-wood  now  is  the  choral  hymn, 

As  it  smiles  in  the  setting  sun. 

'  Farewell  to  the  land  of  the  South  ; 

My  pathway  is  far  o'er  the  deep, 
Where  the  boom  of  the  rolling  surge  is  heard, 

And  the  bones  of  the  shipwrecked  sleep. 


104  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

c  I  go  to  the  land  of  mist  and  storm, 

Where  the  iceberg  looms  o'er  the  swell, 

Afar  from  the  sunlit  mountains  and  streams  ; 
Sweet  land  of  the  South  !  farewell  !  ' 

The  song  had  ceased  ;   and  the  Summer  breeze, 

Came  whispering  up  the  glen  ; 
And  the  green  leaves  danced  on  the  forest-trees, 

As  they  welcomed  its  breath  again. 
And  the  cold  rocks  slept  in  the  moonlight  wan, 
But  the  wintry  wind  and  its  song  were  gone. 


THE    INFANT   SAMUEL 


BY    EPHRAIM    PEABODY. 


"  Then  Samuel  answered,  speak  Lord  j  for  thy  servant 
heareth." 

IN  childhood's  spring, — ah  !  blessed  spring  ! 

As  flowers  closed  up  at  even 
Unfold  in  morning's  earliest  beam, 

The  heart  unfolds  to  heaven. 
Ah!  blessed  child  that  trustingly 

Adores  and  loves  and  fears, 
And  to  a  Father's  voice  replies, 

e  Speak  Lord,  thy  servant  hears.' 

When  youth  shall  come, — ah  !  blessed  youth  ! 

If  still  the  pure  heart  glows, 
And  in  the  world  and  word  of  God, 

Its  Maker's  language  knows  ; — 


106  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

If  in  the  night  and  in  the  day, 

Midst  youthful  joys  or  fears, 
The  trusting  heart  can  answer  still 

f  Speak  Lord,  thy  servant  hears.' 

When  age  shall  come, — ah  !  blessed  age  ! 

If  in  its  lengthening  shade, 
When  life  grows  faint  and  earthly  lights 

Recede  and  sink  and  fade, — 
Ah,  blessed  age  !  if  then  heaven's  light 

Dawn  on  the  closing  eye, 
And  Faith  unto  the  call  of  God 

Can  answer, — 'Here  am  I.' 


THE   LAST  SUN  OF   AUTUMN 

INSCRIBED    IN    AN    ALBUM,    NOV.    30,   1839. 


BY     THE     EDITOR. 


'Tis  the  last  sun  of  Autumn  that  smiles  on  us  ix 
And  the  soft  South  is  breathing  o'er  sere  field 

bough  : — 

The  leaves  are  all  wither'd,  the  bright  birds  are  gc 
And  the  song  of  the  wood  is  the  Wind-Spirit's  m< 

3Tis  the  time  for  the  rushing  of  storms  in  the  sky 
For  the  Winter-wind's  howling,  the  Autumn's  1 

sigh  ; 

And  still  it  beams  softly,  this  Summer-like  sun, 
Tho'the  days  e'en  of  Autumn  are  numbered  and  d 

So  when  from  that  cluster  each  dark  lock  shall  f 
And  the  glow  of  thy  beauty  shall  wither  and  pale 
Oh!  smile  as  the  last  sun  of  Autumn  doth  now, 
No  sigh  from  thy  bosom,  no  cloud  on  thy  brow  ! 


APOSTROPHE    TO    THE    OCEAN, 


BY    CHARLES    H.    BROWN. 


HAIL,  dark  old  ocean  !  wild  and  loud 

Thy  plangent  billows  roar, 
Tossed  by  the  tempest's  raging  might 

Far  on  the  surf-bound  shore. 
Hail  !  thou,  whose  ceaseless  rage  began 

When  earth  from  chaos  sprung, 
And  through  the  heavens'  re-echoing  vaults 

Celestial  music  rung. 

Thou  art  the  same  mysterious  sea, 

As  when,  long  ages  past, 
The  silent  moon  first  on  thy  tide 

Its  golden  radiance  cast. 
The  eternal  hills,  the  rocks  and  caves 

Proclaim  thy  deeds  of  old, 
When  o'er  this  sin-devoted  world 

Thy  mighty  deluge  rolled. 


APOSTROPHE     TO     THE    OCEAN.  109 

Beneath  thy  dark  and  vengeful  flood, 

The  proudest  fleets  of  yore, 
With  all  their  hale  and  gallant  crews 

Sunk,  to  return  no  more. 
And  there  the  beautiful  and  brave 

Rest  in  thine  awful  deep, 
While  o'er  their  bleached  and  scattered  bones, 

Thy  sullen  surges  sweep. 

Roll  on,  old  ocean,  dark  and  deep  ! 

For  thee  there  is  no  rest : — 
Those  giant  waves  shall  never  sleep, 

That  o'er  thy  billowy  breast, 
Tramp  like  the  march  of  conquerors, — 

Nor  cease  their  choral  hymn, 
Till  earth  with  fervent  heat  shall  melt, 

And  lamps  of  heaven  grow  dim. 


10 


I  WOULD  NOT   LIVE  ALWAY.7 


BY     WILLIAM     CUTTER. 


'  It  is  true  there  are  shadows  as  well  as  lights,  clouds  as  well 
as  sunshine,  thorns  as  well  as  roses ;  but  it  is  a  happy  world 
after  all.' 

'  I  WOULD  not  live  alway  ! ' — yet  'tis  not  that  here 

There's  nothing  to  live  for,  and  nothing  to  love  ; 
The  cup  of  life's  blessings,  though  mingled  with  tears, 

Is  crowned  with  rich  tokens  of  good  from  above  : 
And  dark  though  the  storms  of  adversity  rise, 

Though  changes  dishearten,  and  dangers  appal, 
Each  hath  its  high  purpose,  both  gracious  and  wise. 

And  a  FATHER'S  kind  providence  rules  over  all. 

( I  would  not  live  alway  !  '  and  yet  oh,  to  die  ! 

With  a  shuddering  thrill  how  it  palsies  the  heart  ! 
We  may  love,  we  may  pant  for,  the  glory  on  high, 

Yet  tremble  and  grieve  from  earth's  kindred  to  part. 


I     WOULD     NOT     LIVE     ALWAY.  Ill 


There  are  ties  of  deep  tenderness  drawing  us  down, 
Which  warm  round  the  heart-strings  their  tendrils 
will  weave  ; 

And  Faith,  reaching  forth  for  her  heavenly  crown, 
Still  lingers,  embracing  the  friends  she  must  leave. 

1  1  would  not  live  alway  !  '  because  I  am  sure 

There's  a  better,  a  holier  rest  in  the  sky  ; 
And  the  hope  that  looks  forth  to  that  heavenly  shore, 

Overcomes  timid  nature's  reluctance  to  die. 
O  visions  of  glory,  of  bliss,  and  of  love, 

Where  sin  cannot  enter,  nor  passion  enslave, 
Ye  have  power  o'er  the  heart,  to  subdue  or  remove 

The  sharpness  of  death,  and  the  gloom  of  the  grave! 

c  I  would  not  live  alway  !  5  yet  'tis  not  that  time, 
Its  loves,  hopes  and  friendships,  cares,  duties,  and 


Yield  nothing  exalted,  nor  pure,  nor  sublime, 
The  heart  to  delight,  or  the  soul  to  employ  ; 

No  !  an  angel  might  oftentimes  sinlessly  dwell 
Mid  the  innocent  scenes  to  life's  pilgrimage  given; 

And  though  passion  and  folly  can  make  earth  a  hell, 
To  the  pure  'tis  the  emblem  and  gate-way  of  heaven. 


112  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

'  1  would  not  live  alway  !  '  and  yet,  while  I  stay 

In  this  Eden  of  time,  'mid  these  gardens  of  earth, 
I'd  enjoy  the  sweet  flowers  and  fruits  as  I  may, 

And  gain  with  their  treasures  whate'er  they  are 

worth  : 
I  would  live  as  if  life  were  a  part  of  my  heaven, 

I  would  love,  as  if  love  were  a  part  of  its  bliss, 
And  I'd  take  the  sweet  comforts,  so  lavishly  given, 

As  foretastes  of  that  world,  in  portions,  in  this. 

'  ]  would  not  live  alway  !  '  yet  willingly  wait, 

Be  it  longer  or  shorter,  life's  journey  to  roam, 
Ever  ready  and  girded,  with  spirits  elate, 

To  obey  the  first  call  that  shall  summon  me  home. 
O  yes  !  it  is  better,  far  better,  to  go 

Where  pain,  sin,  and  sorrow  can  never  intrude  ; 
And  yet  I  would  cheerfully  tarry  below, 

And  expecting  the  BETTER,  rejoice  in  the  GOOD. 


A   DIRGE, 

SUNG  IN  MEMORY  OF  LANE,  O'BRIEN,  AND  SMITH,  OF 
THE   CLASS    OF    1838. 

BY     ROBERT     WYMAN. 


COMRADES,  we  meet  to  mourn  the  dead  ! 

We  meet — but  ah  !  not  all ; 
Our  tears  of  grief  may  not  be  shed 

Upon  the  funeral  pall. 

Far,  far  away  from  this  dear  haunt, 
Our  friends  and  classmates  sleep  ; 

Yet  here  may  we  their  requiem  chant, 
And  o'er  their  memory  weep. 

Well  hath  the  classic  poet  sung,  * 
That  Death  with  equal  stride 

Knocks  at  the  gate  of  old  and  young — 
Of  poverty  and  pride. 

*  Horace  Lib.  1.  Car.  4.    Palida  Mors,  etc. 
10* 


114  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Though  dust  to  dust  may  be  consigned — 

Friend  after  friend  depart  ; 
Their  cherished  names  shall  be  enshrined 

In  many  a  living  heart. 

'<* 
But  while  our  hearts  with  anguish  bleed, 

We  bow  beneath  the  rod  ; 
Oh  !  may  we  all  this  warning  heed, 
'  Prepare  to  meet  thy  God  !  ' 

And  we— when  down  death's  dreary  coast 
Our  shattered  barks  are  driven  ; 

By  sea  and  storm  no  longer  tossed — 
May  we  repose  in  heaven. 


THE   LAST   DROUGHT 


AN     IMITATION. 


BY    CHARLES     H.     UPTON 


I  HAD  a  dream  which  was  not  all  a  dream. 
The  Summer's  sun,  that  daily  rose  undimmed, 
As  he  advanced,  gave  out  a  scorching  heat  ; 
The  wind  had  lost  its  freshness,  and  did  blow 
A  furnace  blast,  sweeping  the  forest  trees 
Untimely  seared,  with  an  Autumnal  moan. 
Morn  came  and  went,  and  came  and  brought  no  rain. 
The  arid  soil  assumed  an  ashen  hue, 
As  if  with  some  similitude  to  mock 
The  cloudless  sky.     And  now  the  husbandman, 
With  eye  averted  from  the  wasteful  scene, 
Passed  sorrowing,  his  desolated  fields, 
Seeking  his  flocks. — Of  these,  despairing  food, 
Some  left  the  meadow's  brown-crisped  herbage, 
And  panting  sought  the  hill-side  for  a  shade  ; 
While  some  with  hollowed  flank  and  eye  ball  glazed, 
And  tongue  protruded  far,  the  thickets  sought, 
Impelled  by  instinct  to  a  silent  grave. 


116  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Night  came  and  went  and  came  and  brought  no  dew. 
Their  liquid  murmuring  the  streams  forgot. 
Men  hurried  to  and  fro  with  anxious  tread, 
As  when  some  dread  alarm  doth  interrupt 
The  revellers, — each  questioning  his  fellow 
If  this  were  famine,  or  if  Death  were  come 
To  reap  his  harvest  of  the  harvesters. 
The  lakes  their  bosoms,  streams  their  channels 

bared, 

And  in  their  oozy  bed  fast-mired,  the  beasts 
Which  from  far  inland  came  to  quench  their  thirst, 
Their  famished  limbs  refusing  further  aid, 
Gasping  had  sunk  : — impatient  for  their  blood, 
The  vultures  tore  and  gorged  upon  them  warm. 
From  out  their  habitations  in  the  cities 
Men  rushed  distraught,  and  fled,  to  caverns  some, 
And  some  to  haunts  of  the  still  wilderness  ; 
While  others  with  a  voice  of  stifled  prayer 
Poured  out  their  anguish  in  the  sanctuary. 
Even  tombs  were  broken,  and  their  vapors  dank 
For  a  short  space,  the  torture  did  allay 
That  fiercely  raged  in  the  hot  breath  of  life. 
And  now  one  only  want,  one  hope,  one  prayer 
Was  left,  and  all  with  blood-shot  eyes  upturned 
Had  WATER!  written  on  their  parched  lips. 
Then  came  the  deluge  and  red  lava  fell, 
Consuming  all  things — even  hope  herself. 


A    PEACE-HYMN 


BY     DANIEL    DOLE 


SPEED  on,  O  Prince  of  Peace, 

The  long-expected  day, 
When  fierce-embattled  strife  shall  cease, 

And  the  wild  war-horn's  bray. 

Adorned  in  radiant  hues, 

That  glorious  day  shall  rise  ; 

A  lovelier  bloom  the  earth  suffuse, 
A  purer  light,  the  skies. 

No  more  shall  madly  rush 

The  warrior  to  the  plain, 
No  more  shall  tears  unbidden  gush, 

For  the  untimely  slain. 

Then  shall  as  sweet  a  song 

As  hailed  Messiah's  birth, 
In  living  music  float  along 

O'er  all  the  bliss-clad  earth. 


HOPE,    FAITH,    CHARITY 


BY     BENJAMIN    A.     G-  .     FULLER. 


"And  now  abideth  faith,  hope,  charity,  these  three  ;  but 
the  greatest  of  these  is  charity.        1.  Cor.  13:  13. 

Have  HOPE  ! — it  is  the  brightest  star 

That  lights  life's  pathway  down. 
A  richer,  purer  gem  than  decks 

An  Eastern  monarch's  crown. 
The  Midas  that  may  turn  to  joy 

The  grief-fount  of  the  soul  ; 
That  points  the  prize,  and  bids  thee  press 

With  fervor  to  the  goal. 


HOPE,     FAITH,     CHARITY.  119 

Have  HOPE  ! — as  the  tossed  mariner. 

Upon  the  wild  waste  driven, 
With  rapture  hails  the  Polar  star, 

His  guiding  light  in  heaven, — 
So  Hope  shall  gladden  thee,  and  guide 

Along  life's  stormy  road, 
And  as  a  sacred  beacon  stand, 

To  point  thee  to  thy  God. 

Have  FAITH  ! — the  substance  of  things  hoped, 

Of  things  not  seen  the  sign  ; 
That  nerves  the  arm  with  God-like  might, 

The  soul  with  strength  divine. 
Have  Faith  ! — her  rapid  foot  shall  bring 

Thee  conquering  to  the  goal, 
Her  glowing  hand  with  honors  wreathe 

A  chaplet  for  thy  soul. 

Have  FAITH  ! — and  though  around  thy  bark 

The  tempest  surges  roar  ; 
At  her  stern  voice  the  storm  shall  rest. 

The  billows  rage  no  more. 
HOPE  bids  the  soul  to  soar  on  high, 

But  yet  no  wing  supplies  ; 
She  marks  the  way, — but  FAITH  shall  bear 

The  spirit  to  the  skies. 


120  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Have  CHARITY  ! — for  though  thou'st  faith 

To  make  the  hills  remove, 
Thou  nothing  art  if  wanting  this,  — 

The  Charity  of  love. 
And  though  an  angel's  tongue  were  thine, 

Whose  voice  none  might  surpass, 
If  Charity  inspire  thee  not, 

Thou  art  '  as  sounding  brass.' 

Have  CHARITY  !  that  suffers  long, 

Is  kind,  and  thinks  no  ill  ; 
That  grieveth  for  a  brother's  fault, 

Yet  loves  that  brother  still. 
FAITH,  HOPE,  and  CHARITY  ! — of  these 

The  last  is  greatest,  best. 
Tis  Heaven  itself  come  down  to  dwell 

Within  the  human  breast. 


THE   LITTLE   GRAVES 


BY     SEBA     SMITH  . 


'TWAS  autumn,  and  the  leaves  were  dry, 
And  rustled  on  the  ground, 
And  chilly  winds  went  whistling  by 
With  low  and  pensive  sound, 

As  through  the  grave  yard's  lone  retreat, 
By  meditation  led, 

I  walked  with  slow  and  cautious  feet 
Above  the  sleeping  dead. 

Three  little  graves,  ranged  side  by  side, 
My  close  attention  drew  ; 
O'er  two  the  tall  grass  bending  sighed, 
And  one  seemed  fresh  and  new. 
11 


122  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

As  lingering  there  I  mused  awhile 
On  death's  long,  dreamless  sleep, 
And  morning  life's  deceitful  smile, 
A  mourner  came  to  weep. 

Her  form  was  bowed,  but  not  with  years, 
Her  Words  were  faint  and  few, 
And  on  those  little  graves  her  tears 
Distilled  like  evening  dew. 

A  prattling  boy,  some  four  years  old, 
Her  trembling  hand  embraced, 
And  from  my  heart  the  tale  he  told 
Will  never  be  effaced. 

1  Mamma,  now  you  must  love  me  more, 

'  For  little  sister's  dead  ; 

c  And  t'other  sister  died  before, 

'  And  brother  too,  you  said. 

'  Mamma,  what  made  sweet  sister  die  ? 
'  She  loved  me  when  we  played  : 
'  You  told  me,  if  I  would  not  cry, 
'You'd  show  me  where  she's  laid.' 


THE     LITTLE     GRAVES.  123 

*  'Tis  here,  my  child,  that  sister  lies, 

*  Deep  buried  in  the  ground  ; 

f  No  light  comes  to  her  little  eyes, 
4  And  she  can  hear  no  sound. 


'  Mamma,  why  can't  we  take  her  up, 

*  And  put  her  in  my  bed  ? 

'  I'll  feed  her  from  my  little  cup, 
'  And  then  she  wont  be  dead. 

1  For  sister  '11  be  afraid  to  lie 

*  In  this  dark  grave  to-night, 

e  And  she'll  be  very  cold,  and  cry, 

*  Because  there  is  no  light.5 

*  No,  sister  is  not  cold,  my  child, 

*  For  God,  who  saw  her  die, 

*  As  He  looked  down  from  Heaven  and  smiled, 
'  Called  her  above  the  sky. 

*  And  then  her  spirit  quickly  fled 
4  To  God  by  whom  'twas  given  ; 

'  Her  body  in  the  ground  is  dead, 
*But  sister  lives  in  Heaven.' 


124  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

'  Mamma,  wont  she  be  hungry  there, 
'  And  want  some  bread  to  eat  ? 
'  And  who  will  give  her  clothes  to  wear, 
1  And  keep  them  clean  and  neat  ? 

'  Papa  must  go  and  carry  some, 

'  I'll  send  her  all  I've  got  ; 

'  And  he  must  bring  sweet  sister  home, 

'  Mamma,  now  must  he  not  ?  5 

1  No,  my  dear  child,  that  cannot  be  ; 
'  But  if  you're  good  and  true, 
1  You  '11  one  day  go  to  her,  but  she 
'  Can  never  come  to  you. 

1  Let  little  children  come  to  me, 
1  Once  the  good  Savior  said ; 
1  And  in  his  arms  she'll  always  be, 
'  And  God  will  give  her  bread.' 


AN    EXTRACT. 

IN   MEMORY   OF    LEONARD   F.    APTHORP,    A   FRIEND 
AND    CLASSMATE    OF    THE    AUTHOR. 

BY   ISAAC   M'LELLAN,   JR. 


SOON  the  pale  Scholar  learneth  that  the  star 
That  lured  him  on,  but  leadeth  to  the  grave  ; 
And  that  the  images  of  sombre  stain 
Are  ever  with  life's  tissue  bright,  inwrought. 
And  such  a  one,  but  yesternight  I  saw 
Placed  where  Ambition's  dream  shall  vex  no  more. 
He  saw  the  sparkles  in  life's  golden  cup, 
And  fain  would  deeply  of  its  sweets  have  quaffed, 
But  never  lived  to  learn  the  poison  of  the  draught. 

Departed  friend  !  thy  brethren  all  have  passed 
From  that  still  spot  which  sepulchres  thy  dust, 
To  mingle  in  earth's  noisier  scenes,  to  walk 
In  life's  tumultuous,  and  thronging  path. 
11* 


126  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Yet  as  the  traveler  at  the  close  of  day 
Will  pause  to  view  the  darkening  landscape  round, 
O'er  which  the  Day's  long  pilgrimage  had  been, 
So  we,  in  later  years  will  love  to  view 
In  memory's  dream,  those  scenes  we  walked  with  you. 

I  oft  have  sat  at  that  still  hour,  when  slow 
From  her  dim  hall,  the  purple  Twilight  stole, 
And  shut  the  shadowy  landscape  from  the  view, 
To  mark  the  picture  thy  warm  fancy  drew 
Of  coming  life, — its  triumph  and  its  joys. 
Alas,  fond  dreamer,  all  thy  colored  hopes 
Are  buried  now  beneath  the  Church-yard  Stone, 
The  crumbling  mould  is  now  thy  narrow  bed, 
And  the  rank  church-yard  weed  waves  mournful  o'er 
thy  head. 


STANZAS 


ON     RECOVERY     FROM     ILLNESS 


BY     CLAUDE     L.     HEMANS. 


How  sweet  the  rest  kind  nature  brings, 
As  now  she  bids  my  sorrow  cease, 

And  comes  with  healing  on  her  wings 
To  give  this  aching  brow  release. 

This  kindly  air  so  sweet  and  mild , 
That  greets  me  like  affection's  voice, 

She  sends  to  soothe  her  suffering  child, 
And  make  my  drooping  heart  rejoice. 

Hope  with  unruffled  plumes  once  more 
Broods  buoyant  on  my  tranquil  breast, 

As  when  the  raging  storm  is  o'er 

Some  light  bird  floats  on  waves  at  rest. 

Thanks,  gentle  friends,  whose  tender  care 
Has  poured  these  blessings  on  my  head, 

And  o'er  the  gloom  of  dark  despair 
The  rays  of  warm  affection  shed. 


FAIRY   LAND. 


BY    WILLIAM    B.     WALTER.* 


SOMETIMES  we  wander  to  the  Fairy  Land, 
Where  the  soul  dances  and  her  wings  expand  : — 
Fair  Land  !— its  turf  all  brightened  o'er  with  flowers, 
And  dewy  shrubbery,  and  moonlight  bowers, 
Retreat  of  glittering  Fancy's  vagrant  powers. 
Fair  Heaven  ! — where  many  colored  clouds  enfold, 
Bright  islets  floating  in  the  sea  of  gold  ! 
Proud  domes  and  palaces  are  shining  there, 
With  ivory  columns,  gemmed  with  fire-stained  spar! 
There  wanton  Zephyrs  dance  on  budding  flowers, 
And  waft  the  fragrant  leaves  in  snowy  showers  ; — 
By  sunny  banks,  the  silver  waters  whirl 
A  wildering  music  o'er  their  sands  of  pearl  ; 
And  birds  are  singing  from  their  star-lit  bowers, 
To  lull  the  sleeping  of  the  blue  eyed  Hours  ! — 
Light  things  are  flitting  in  this  world  of  air  ; 
Gay  creatures  born  of  thought,  are  dwelling  there  ; 


FAIRY     LAND.  129 

The  Elfin  race,  who  bathe  in  dews  of  morn  ; 
And  climb  the  rainbow  of  the  summer  storm, — 
Floating  about,  in  thinnest  robes  of  light, 
From  meteors  caught,  that  shoot  along  the  night. 
Crowns,  studded  o'er  with  gems,  their  brows  adorn, 
Stole  from  the  eyelids  of  the  waking  morn  ! 
They  wave  bright  sceptres  wrought  of  moonlight 

beams, 

And  spears  of  chrystal,  tinged  with  lightning  gleams! 
Young  naked  loves  are  sporting  on  the  main, 
Or  glide  on  clouds  along  the  etherial  plain  ! 
Their  snowy  breasts  floating  the  waves  among, 
Are  kissed  by  shapes  of  light,  and  swim  along 
In  liquid  sapphire — with  their  humid  locks 
Dropping  thick  diamonds  o'er  the  mossy  rocks  ! — 
The  sea  green  realm,  is  all  with  emeralds  shining, 
With  rainbow  arches  o'er  the  depths  reclining  ! — 
And  other  skies  are  deeply  rolling  under, 
With  clouds  of  trembling  flame  and  slumbering 

thunder ! 

And  minstrels  blow  their  horns  of  tulip  flowers  ! 
In  echoes  softly  from  their  air-borne  towers, 
Floats  back  the  music,  with  a  dreamy  sound, — 
A  dove-winged  presence,  hovering  around  ! 
Visions  of  Joy,  in  sun-robed  garments  sporting — 
Dear  Loves,  with  gay  looks  in  green  pathways 

courting  ! 


TO    MY   MOTHER, 


ON     A      BIRTH-DAY. 


BY     THE     EDITOR. 


THEY  tell  me  I  am  FREE, 

As  though  the  thought  were  glad  ; 
But  oh  !  it  burdens  me, 

And  mother,  I  am  sad. 
I  feel  that  I  am  wearing 

Too  early,  manhood's  years — 
That  time  is  onward  bearing 

To  conflict  and  to  tears. 

I  sighed  in  childhood's  hours, 

To  rank  among  the  FREE  ; 
But  where,  oh  !  where,  ye  powers, 

The  freedom  promised  me  ? 
For  oh  !  the  tie  bound  lightly 

In  youthful  days  I  wore, 
And  sunshine  beamed,  how  brightly— 

As  it  will  beam  no  more. 


TO     MY    MOTHER.  131 

FREE — from  my  guileless  plays 

Beneath  that  hoar  old  tree  j 
Light  of  my  early  days, 

Dear  mother,  and  from  THEE- 
Free  from  thy  guardian  care  ; 

On  childhood's  bended  knee 
To  lisp  no  more  thy  prayer  ;— 

And  THIS  is  to  be  FREE  ! 

Nay  !  'tis  a  chain  I  wear, 

That  binds  me  from  my  home — «• 
Whose  links  are  toil  and  care, 

That  gall  me  as  I  roam. 
The  stern  decree  is  past, 

They  say  I  am  '  my  own  ;  ' 
My  lot  is  earth-ward  cast — 

I  tread  the  world  alone. 

No  !  not  alone — a  crowd 

Of  mad  ones  past  me  sweep, •*-* 
Ambition  trumpeth  loud 

To  Fame's  unhallowed  steep  : 
They  bid  me  onward  press, 

Till  thought  itself  grows  wild, 
My  brain  a  wilderness — 

My  heart  with  earth  defiled  ! 


132  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

I  hear  the  thunderous  boom, 

I  scent  the  battle's  air; 
My  leaping  blood  cries  'ROOM — 

I'm  with  the  thickest  there  ! ' 
f  STAY  ' — saith  a  voice  within, 

'  Be  not  thy  heart  too  strong  ; 
*  Court  not  life's  battle  din, 

* 'Twill  summon  thee  ere  long. 

1  Seek  higher  mastery 

c  Than  winning  thee  a  name — 
'  The  tinsel  blazonry 

'  Of  an  unlasting  fame  ! 
'Look  where  the  foe  would  crush 

1  Thy  nobler  purposings, 
c  The  passions'  maddening  rush — 

'The  strife  of  earthly  things.' 

Oh  !  gird  us  for  that  fight, 

With  earth-embattled  powers, 
Thou  of  Eternal  Might— 

In  the  fast-coming  hours  ! 
When  inward  foes  o'erwhelm, 

Be  Righteousness  our  mail, 
Salvation's  hope  our  helm, 

When  fiery  darts  assail ; 


TO     MY    MOTHER.  133 

God-given  strength,  to  wield 

The  spirit-piercing  sword 
Of  the  Eternal  Word— 

And  Faith  our  battle-shield. 
Thus  panoplied,  we  yield 

Not  in  the  tumult  strife, 
Triumphant  on  the  field 

Of  this  stern,  mortal  life. 


* 

Star,  that  in  heaven  burns, 

The  changeless  and  the  true — 
The  trembling  needle  turns, 

And  points  at  length  to  you. 
Star  in  my  heaven  set, 

Earth's  'lesser  lights'  above — 
My  wandering  heart  is  yet 

Firm  to  thy  ray  of  love  ! 

JAH.  19,  1840. 


12 


THE    DEAD. 


BY     GEORGE     F.     TALBOT 


THE  mighty  dead,  earth's  teeming  brood, 

Say,  whither  are  they  gone  ? 
I  move  amidst  life's  busy  crowd, 

And  feel  almost  alone. 

Thou  greedy  earth,  whose  fertile  rind 

With  human  gore  is  drunk, 
What  is  thy  solid  mould  but  men, 

That  'neath  thy  soil  have  sunk  ? 

Oh  !  cruel  mother,  yield  us  back 
Each  much  loved  form  and  face, 

To  the  mute  yearnings  of  our  love 
Give  back  our  ravished  race. 


THE     DEAD.  135 

Where  o'er  thine  orb  from  pole  to  pole, 
Did  man  ne'er  yield  his  breath  ? 

What  space  hast  thou  of  sea  or  shore 
Unhallowed  by  a  death  ? 

Thy  fields  yield  verdure  fair  as  erst 

Creation's  new  spring  bore  ; 
Thine  unchanged  mountains  sport  a  dress 

As  rich,  as  e'er  they  wore. 

Thy  zephyrs  yet  blow  coolly  by, 
Thy  woodland  streams  run  free  ; 

As  pure  an  azure  tints  thy  sky, 
As  deep  a  blue  thy  sea. 

And  yet  not  all  thy  aspects,  Earth, 

Of  changeless  joy  appear  ; 
Not  all  unknelled  the  dead  have  gone, 

Not  all  unwept  their  bier. 

There's  moaning  for  them  in  the  rush 

Of  the  forest-shaking  gale  ; 
The  waves,  that  roll  o'er  mouldering  men, 

For  them  hoarse  requiem  wail. 

There's  sobbing  in  the  thunder-cloud 
And  tear  drops  fall  in  showers, 


136  BOW  COIN     POETS. 

And  widowed  nature  yearly  mourns, 
And  lays  aside  her  flowers. 

From  him,  who  felt  the  unknown  pang 
Of  death,  the  doomed  of  God  ; 

To  those,  whose  unchanged  forms  now  lie 
Scarce  cold  beneath  the  sod  ; 

How  oft  disease,  and  sword,   and  flood, 
Have  reaped  earth's  harvest  o'er, 

And  all  her  myriad,  myriad  race, 
To  their  dark  garner  bore. 

Hushed  is  the  Medes'  invading  tramp, 
Their  spears  consumed  with  rust, 

The  hosts  that  swelled  through  Babel's  gates, 
Have  mingled  with  their  dust. 

On  Afric's  stormy  strand  are  thrown 

The  Tyrians  and  their  gain, 
Nor  now  can  boast  the  fearful  ones, 

Who  tempted  ne'er  the  main. 

Mourn  not  the  Greek  on  Marathon, 

Or  'neath  the  Attic  waves,     v 
The  nation,  rescued  by  their  death, 

Sunk  in  less  glorious  graves. 


THE    DEAD.  137 

Time,  Carthage,  has  avenged  thy  wrongs, — 

The  haughty  throng,  that  led 
Thy  captive  sons  through  Rome's  proud  streets, 

Are  numbered  with  thy  dead. 

Jerusalem  weeps  not  her  slain. 

Nor  hates  her  conquering  foes, 
The  mountains  saved  not  them  who  fled, 

Nor  yet  their  victory  those. 

Ranks  fell  on  ranks  on  Waterloo, 

And  Borodino's  plain, 
And  Russia's  snows  have  crimson  grown 

With  blood  of  thousands  slain. 

The  peasant  by  his  cottage  fire, 

The  noble  in  his  hall, 
The  savage  in  his  wilderness, 

Before  the  slayer  fall. 

Oh  !  all  the  race  of  men  are  dead, 

And  earth  is  sad  and  drear  ! 
Like  flitting  shadows  of  the  past, 

A  few  still  linger  here. 
12* 


LYRIC    POETRY 


BY     WILLIAM     CUTTER. 


Music,  one  day,  was  straying 

In  Poesy's  sweet  bowers, 
Like  a  pleased  infant  playing 

Among  the  fragrant  flowers — 
Now  with  the  fairies  tripping 

In  dances  light  as  air, 
And  now  from  rose-hearts  sipping 

The  nectar  treasured  there. 

At  length,  with  feasting  sated, 

And  wearied  out  with  play, 
She  found  herself  belated, 

And  thought  it  best  to  stay. 
Her  harp  of  tuneful  numbers 

Upon  a  rose  she  flung, 
And  sought  reviving  slumbers 

The  dewy  leaves  among. 


LYRIC     POETRY.  139 

While  there  divinely  dreaming 

Of  fairies,  fays,  and  flowers, 
And  still  in  fancy  seeming 

To  revel  in  those  bowers — 
Fair  Poesy  espied  her, 

And,  taking  up  her  Lyre, 
Seated  herself  beside  her, 

And  touched  the  trembling  wire. 

Startled,  but  not  affrighted, 

She  swept  the  Lyre  again, 
Till  every  cord  delighted 

Breathed  out  its  sweetest  strain  : 
And  while  those  strains  were  dying 

In  echo's  faintest  tone, 
*  I  would,'  she  said,  deep  sighing, 

'This  Lyre  were  all  my  own.' 

Music  just  then  awaking, 

Replied  with  gentle  mien, 
'  There  can  be  no  mistaking 

'Your  right  to  it,  fair  queen  ! 
'For  she  who  can  so  sweetly 

'  Inform  each  breathing  wire, 
'  Is  named  and  crowned  most  meetly 

'The  Mistress  of  the  Lyre.' 


140  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Fair  Poesy,  deep  blushing, 

Gave  music  back  the  toy, 
While  through  her  heart  was  rushing 

A  pure  unwonted  joy — 
1  Nay,  lovely  sister  !  hear  me, 

'With  me  do  thou  abide, 
'  Forever  one  and  near  me, 

'My  throne  thou  shalt  divide. 

'  When  from  their  breathing  slumbers 

'  Thou  pour'st  sweet  strains  along, 
*  I'll  catch  the  airy  numbers, 

'And  weave  them  into  song. 
'  I'll  cull  fair  flowers,  and  warm  them 

'  With  spirit  from  above, 
'And  thou  shalt  all  inform  them 

1  With  melody  and  love.' 

Thus  formed,  this  fond  alliance 

Was  never  after  broke  ; 
Since  then,  in  sweet  compliance, 

The  two  as  one  have  spoke  ; 
And  thence  the  lyric  measures 

In  graceful  numbers  flow, 
Giving  new  zest  to  pleasure, 

And  gently  soothing  wo. 


FOOTSTEPS   OF    ANGELS 


BY     HENRY     W.    LONGFELLOW. 


WHEN  the  hours  of  day  are  numbered, 
And  the  voices  of  the  Night 

Wake  the  better  soul  that  slumbered, 
To  a  holy,  calm  delight  ; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  fire-light 
Dance  upon  the  parlor  wall  ; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door  ; 
The  beloved  ones,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more  ; 


142  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 

By  the  road-side  fell  and  perished, 
Weary  with  the  march  of  life  ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly, 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more  ! 

And  with  them  the  Being  Beauteous, 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep, 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me, 
With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 


FOOTSTEPS     OF     ANGELS.  143 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 

Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 
Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 

Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

O,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 

All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 
If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died  I 


OH  THINK  NOT  THAT  THE  DREAM 
IS  PAST ! 


BY    JOHN    B.    L.    SOULE. 


OH  THINK  not  that  the  dream  is  past 

Of  scenes  when  fondest  hopes  were  cherished; 

Though  but  the  shadow  now  may  last 
Of  each  bright  hope  forever  perished. 

I  know  that  fortune  hath  decreed 
These  hearts  shall  never  be  united  ; 

I  know  that  mine  alone  must  bleed, 
That  mine  alone  was  truly  plighted. 

Although  the  strain  which  now  I  pour 

In  plaintive  sadness,  ne'er  may  reach  thee  ; 

Although  this  tongue  shall  never  more 
Of  deathless  love  essay  to  teach  thee, — 


OH  THINK  NOT  THAT  THE  DREAM  IS  PAST.    145 

Yet  it  is  well — I  would  not  mar 

The  new-born  pleasures  that  surround  thee, 
Nor  on  my  lonely  harp  shall  jar 

One  note  of  memory  to  wound  thee  ! 

But  deem  not  that  this  heart  is  cold, 
Though  this  should  be  its  latest  token, 

Of  love  which  words  have  never  told, 
Of  vows  which  never  can  be  broken. 

Where'er  my  feet  are  doomed  to  stray 
By  hopes  allured,  or  sorrows  driven, 

I'll  turn  from  other  scenes  away 

To  love  thee,  faithless,  but  forgiven  ! 


13 


THE    WITHERED    FLOWERS 


BY    EDMUND     F  L  A  GG 


I  KNEW  they  would  perish  ! 

Those  beautiful  flowers — 
As  the  hopes  that  we  cherish 

In  youth's  sunny  bowers  : — 
I  knew  they'd  be  faded  ! 

Though  with  fond,  gentle  care 
Their  bright  leaves  were  shaded, 

Decay  still  was  there. 

So  all  that  is  brightest 

Ever  first  fades  away, 
And  the  joys  that  leap  lightest 

The  earliest  decay. 
The  heart  that  was  nearest, 

The  widest  will  rove, 
And  the  friend  that  was  dearest 

The  first  cease  to  love. 


THE     WITHERED     FLOWERS.  147 

And  the  purest,  the  noblest, 

The  loveliest— we  know 
Are  ever  the  surest, 

The  soonest  to  go. 
The  birds  that  sing  sweetest, 

The  flowers  most  pure, 
In  their  beauty  are  fleetest, 

In  their  fate  the  most  sure. 

Yet  still  though  thy  flowers 

Are  withered  and  gone, 
They  will  live  like  some  hours 

In  memory  alone. 
In  that  hallowed  shrine  only 

Sleep  things  we  would  cherish, 
Pure,  priceless,  loved,  lonely, 

They  never  can  perish. 

Then  I'll  mourn  ye  no  more, 

Ye  pale  leaves  that  are  shed, 
Though  your  brightness  is  o'er 

Your  perfume  is  not  fled  ; 
And  like  thine  aroma — 

The  spirit  of  flowers — 
Remembrance  will  hover 

O'er  the  grave  of  past  hours. 


THE    DEMON    OF    THE    SEA, 


BY     ELIJAH     KELLOGG,    JR. 


AH  !  tell  me  not  of  your  shady  dells 
Where  the  lilies  gleam  and  the  fountain  wells, 
Where  the  reaper  rests  when  his  task  is  o'er, 
And  the  lake-wave  sobs  on  the  verdant  shore, 
And  the  rustic  maid  with  a  heart  all  free, 
Hies  to  the  well-known  trysting-tree  ; 
For  I'm  the  God  of  the  rolling  sea, 
And  the  charms  of  earth  are  nought  to  me. 
O'er  the  thundering  chime  of  the  breaking  surge 
On  the  lightning's  wing  my  course  I  urge, 
On  thrones  of  foam  right  joyous  ride 
'Mid  the  sullen  dash  of  the  angry  tide. 

I  hear  ye  tell  of  music's  power, 
The  rapture  of  a  sigh, 

When  beauty  in  her  wizard  bower 

Unveils  her  languid  eye. — 
Ye  never  knew  the  infernal  fire, 


THE     DEMON     OF     THE     SEA.  149 

The  withering  curse,  the  scorching  ire, 
That  rages,  maddens  in  the  breast 
Of  him  who  rules  the  billow's  crest. 
Heard  ye  that  last  despairing  yell 
That  wailed  Creation's  funeral  knell, 
When  young  and  old,  the  vile,  the  brave, 
Were  circled  in  one  common  grave  ? 
While  on  my  car  of  driving  foam 

By  moaning  whirlwinds  sped, 
O'er  what  ivas  joyous  earth  I  roam 

And  trample  on  the  dead. 
This  is  the  music  that  my  ear 
Thrills  with  stern  ecstacy  to  hear  ! 
I  love  to  view  some  lonely  bark, 
The  sport  of  storms,  the  lightning's  mark, 
Scarce  struggling  through  the  freshening  wave 
That  foams  and  yawns  to  be  her  grave  ! 
I  saw  a  son  and  father  fight 

For  a  drifting  spar  their  lives  to  save  ; 
The  son  he  throttled  his  father  gray, 
And  tore  the  spar  from  his  clutch  away 

Till  he  sank  beneath  the  wave  ; 
And  deemed  it  were  a  noble  sight. 
I  saw  upon  a  shattered  wreck 
All  swinging  at  the  tempest's  beck, 
A  mother  lone,  whose  frienzied  eye 
Wandered  in  hopeless  agony, 
13* 


150  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

O'er  that  vast  plain  where  nought  was  seen 

The  ocean  and  the  sky  between, 

And  there  all  buried  to  the  breast 

In  the  hungry  surf  that  round  her  prest — 

With  feeble  arms,  in  anguish  wild, 

High  o'er  her  head  she  raised  her  child, 

Endured  of  winds  and  waves  the  strife, 

To  add  a  unit  to  its  life. 

Poor  wretch,  she  deemed  it  might  not  be 

That  the  cruel  shark  his  meal  should  make 
Of  the  babe  she'd  nursed  so  tenderly, 

By  her  own  sweet  native  lake. 
I  whelmed  that  infant  in  the  sea 
To  add  a  pang  to  her  misery, 
And  the  wretched  mother's  frantic  yell 
Came  o'er  me  like  a  soothing  spell  ! 

Are  ye  so  haughty  in  your  pride, 

To  deem  of  all  the  earth  beside, 

That  yours  are  fields  and  fragrant  bowers, 

And  gold  and  gems  of  priceless  worth, 

And  all  the  glory  of  the  earth  ? 

Ah,  mean  is  all  your  pageantry 

To  that  proud,  fadeless  blazonry, 

That  waves  in  scathless  beauty  free, 

Beneath  the  blue,  old  rolling  sea  ! 

For  there  are  flowers  that  wither  not, 

And  leaves  that  never  fall, 


THE    DEMON     OF     THE     SEA.  151 

Immortal  forms  in  each  wild  grot, 

Still  bright  and  changeless  all. 
Decay  is  not  on  beauty's  bloom, 

Nor  canker  in  the  rose, 
No  prescience  of  a  future  doom 

To  mar  the  sweet  repose. 
There  Proteus'  changeful  form  is  seen, 

And  Triton  winds  his  shell, 
While  through  old  Ocean's  valleys  green, 

The  tuneful  echoes  swell. 
But  though  a  Demon  rightly  named, 
For  terror  more  than  mercy  famed, — 
Yet  Demons  e'en  respect  the  power 
That  nerves  the  heart  in  danger's  hour. 
And  when  the  veteran  of  a  hundred  storms, 

Whom,  many  a  wild  midnight, 
I've  girded  with  a  thousand  startling  forms 

Of  terror  and  affright, — 

When  tempests  roar,  and  hell-fiends  scream, 
The  thunders  crash,  the  lightnings  gleam, 
'Mid  biting  cold  and  driving  hail 
Still  grasps  the  helm,  still  trims  the  sail, 
Nor  deigns  to  utter  coward  cries, 
But  as  he  lived,  so  fearless  dies, — 
Mingles  his  last  faint,  bubbling  sigh 
With  the  pealing  tempest's  banner-cry  ; — 


152  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Then  winds  are  hushed,  the  billow  falls, 

Where  storms  are  wont  to  be, 
As  I  bear  him  to  the  untrodden  halls 

Of  the  deep,  unfathomed  sea  ! 
Now  Triton  sends  a  mournful  strain 

Through  all  that  vast  profound, — 
At  once  a  bright  immortal  train 

Come  thronging  at  the  sound. 
And  on  a  shining,  pearly  car 

They  place  the  honored  dust, 
And  ocean's  chargers  gently  bear 

Along  the  sacred  trust, 
While  far  o'er  all  the  glassy  plain 

By  mighty  Neptune  led, 
In  sadness  move  that  funeral  train, — 

Thus  Ocean  wails  her  dead  ! 
And  now  the  watch  of  Life  is  past, 
The  shattered  hulk  is  moored  at  last, 
Nor  e'en  the  tempest's  thrilling  breath 
Can  wake  the  'dull,  cold  ear  of  Death.' 
No  bitter  thoughts  of  home  and  loved  ones  dart 
Their  untold  anguish  through  the  seaman's  heart. 

Peaceful  be  thy  slumbers,  brother, 

There's  no  prouder  grave  for  thee, 
Well  may  pine  for  thee  a  mother, 
Flower  of  ocean's  chivalry  ! 


SONNET 

TO    A    BURGUNDY    ROSE,    PRESENTED    THE    AUTHOR    BY 
A    LADY. 

BY    HENRY    J.    GARDNER. 


FAIREST  of  flowers,  by  fairest  lady  given  ! 
Thine  only  fault  that  thou  wilt  quickly  fade, — 
Though  early  plucked,  yet  blessed  to  be  riven 
From  thine  own  stem,  and  on  her  bosom  laid, 
Like  as  a  pearl  in  gold,  a  star  in  heaven  ! 
Oh  !  I  would  dream  were  I  not  half  afraid, — 
That  she  in  some  thought-wildered  happy  hour, 
Erst-while  ere  thou  wert  given  me,  fair  flower, 
A  kiss  perchance  may  have  impressed  on  thee. 
And  I  would  dream  that  some  mysterious  power 
Had  kept  the  blessing  in  those  leaves,  for  me  ! 
So  would  I  ply  thee  with  a  venturous  lip, 
The  nectar  of  that  hidden  thing  to  sip, — 
And  dream  the  while  of  rose-lipped  loveliness  and 
thee! 


MENTAL    BEAUTY 


BY     RICHARD     H  .    VOSE  . 


I  LOVE  the  hour  when  day  is  spent, 
And  stars  are  in  the  firmament: — 
Sweet  hour  of  night,  thy  shadows  roll, 
A  heavenly  calmness  o'er  the  soul. 

I  love  to  gaze  upon  the  deep, 
When  furious  storms  are  lulled  to  rest  ; 
How  calmly  sweet  those  billows  sleep, 
And  mildly  smile  on  ocean's  breast. 

Oh  !  who  can  gaze  upon  the  ocean, 
And  see  the  moonbeams  sparkle  there, 
Nor  feel  the  flame  of  pure  devotion, 
Nor  offer  up  one  fervent  prayer. 


MENTAL     BEAUTY.  155 

And  who  has  marked  the  rainbow's  smile, 
That  emblem  of  our  Maker's  love, 
And  did  not  burn  with  love  the  while 
To  join  the  adoring  train  above  ? 

But  there's  a  beauty  far  more  bright, 
Than  Ocean's  gems  of  fairest  hue—- 
Than starry  hosts  of  heavenly  light, 
When  beaming  from  that  sky  of  blue. 

The  glorious  sky  shall  pass  away, 
The  mighty  deep  must  cease  to  flow, 
Created  things  shall  all  decay,-— 
This  is  our  sentence,  this  our  woe. 

Yet  earthj  with  Heaven  can  boast  alone, 
A  brighter  beauty,  more  refined, 
Its  centre  is  the  Eternal's  throne — 
It  is  the  beauty  of  the  mind. 


MUSIC   AND   MEMORY 


BY  NATHAN'IEL   L.  SAWYER 


How  oft  some  low  and  gentle  strain, 
From  out  the  mellow  horn  or  flute, 
Rolling  along  the  moon-lit  plain, 
Will  waken  buried  years  again — 

Which  else  to  memory  had  been  mute, 
Oh  !  music  hath  a  magic  power, 
That  serves  to  soothe  a  weary  hour, 
When  perished  hopes  and  fortunes  lower  ; 
From  present  care  and  toil  it  weans, 
And  wafts  us  back  to  halcyon  scenes 
Of  boyhood,  when  the  pulse  ran  wild, 
And  every  vision  undefiled 
Beamed  on  the  waking  slumberer  bright, 
Instinct  with  ever  fresh  delight. 


MUSIC    AND     MEMORY.  157 

I've  stood  upon  a  sea-girt  isle, 

The  heavens  and  earth  were  still,  the  while, 

Lit  by  the  mellow  moonbeam's  smile— >- 

While  strains  of  melody     . 
Awoke  my  dreaming  spirit  there, 
Dispelling  each  intrusive  care, 
As  rung  upon  the  slumbering  ait 

The  bugle  o'er  the  sea. 

The  bugle  hath  a  thrilling  note, 
That  coming  from  a  summer  boat, 
Makes  many  a  vision  round  us  float 

Of  witching  '  Auld  Lang  Syne  ; ' — 
It  gives  the  heart  an  answering  chime, 
Makes  youth  triumphant  over  time, 
And  helps  the  clay-clogged  soul  to  climb 

Where  Romance  dwells  divine. 

There's  music  in  the  lone  cascade, 
That  having  swept  the  upland  glade, 
Now  dashes  down  where  years  have  made 

A  deep  and  wild  ravine  ; 
It  minds  us  of  life's  opening  spring, 
Joys  early  ripe  thick-clustering — 
And  mimic  hopes  on  golden  wing, 

Glancing  the  while  between  ! 
14 


158  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

The  steeple  bell  that  fills  the  air, 
The  organ  in  the  house  of  prayer, 
With  voices  chanting,  all  declare 

In  Sabbath  morning  hour, 
'Mid  shadows  of  a  greener  year — 
The  friends,  whose  lessening  forms  appear 

With  undiminished  power. 

The  Switzer  dreams  of  Father-land, 
While  captive  Judah's  mourning  band 

By  Babel's  willowy  stream 
Hang  up  their  harps. — From  palace  dome, 
To  cottage  thatched,  where-e'er  we  roam, 
Soft  music  turns  the  exile  home 

Where  passed  his  young  life's  dream. 

The  stars  of  heaven  that  o'er  us  beam, 
The  murmur  of  some  gentle  stream, 

Will  open  memory's  cell — 
And  lead  the  wanderer  back  through  years 
Of  woes  and  pains  and  wasting  fears, 
And  joys  that  flash  through  streaming  tears, 

And  leave  him  there  to  dwell 
With  youthful  haunts  and  school-boy  plays, 
And  hills  and  streams  and  sunny  days — 
Where  memory  ever  fondly  strays. 


M  t)  S I  C     AND    MEMORY.  159 

Ay  !  thus  I  thought,  as  one  lone  eve 
The  balmy  air  came  whispering  by, 
And  nature's  spirit  seemed  to  grieve, 

And  still  above,  the  azure  sky 
Seemed  weeping  silent  tears  of  dew — 
While  far  adown  night's  sombre  hue, 
Pale  Luna's  beam  came  wandering  through 
The  star-paved  firmament  of  blue. 

Ay  !  thus  I  thought  that  moony  night 

When  musing  in  yon  classic  hall, 
And  dim  the  unreplenished  light 

Shone  flickering  on  the  shadowy  wall, 
While  future  life  lay  spread  before — 
A  slope  we  yearn  to  travel  o'er, — 
Till  far  along  the  moon-lit  plain, 
Through  Bowdoin's  halls  was  heard  again 
Peal  out  the  PANDEAN 's  thrilling  strain. 

'Twas  then  my  thoughts  were  hurried  back, 
Along  life's  deviating  track, — 
'Twas  then  I  felt  that  music's  power 
Could  soothe  to  peace  the  troubled  hour, — 
'Twas  then  I  struck  my  harp  anew, 
Music  and  Memory,  unto  you. 


LIFE, 

A  BRIEF  HISTORY  IN  THREE  PARTS,  WITH  A  SEQUEL. 


BY     WILLIAM     CUTTER. 


PART  I.        LOVE. 

A  GLANCE — a  thought — a  blow — - 
It  stings  him  to  the  core  ! 

A  question — will  it  lay  him  low  ? 
Or  will  time  heal  it  o'er  ? 

He  kindles  at  the  name, 
He  sits  and  thinks  apart — 

Time  blows,  and  blow&  it  to  a  flame- 
It  burns  within  his  heart. 

He  loves  it,  though  it  burns, 

And  nurses  it  with  care, 
Feeding  the  blissful  pain,  by  turns, 

With  hope,  and  with  despair. 


LIFE.  161 


PART  II.        WOOING. 

Sonnets  and  serenades — 

Sighs,  glances,  tears,  and  vows- 
Gifts,  tokens,  souvenirs,  parades, 

And  courtesies,  and  bows. 

A  purpose  and  a  prayer — 

The  stars  in  the  sky  ! 
He  wonders  how  even  hope  should  dare 

To  let  him  aim  so  high. 

Still  hope  allures  and  flatters, 

And  doubt  just  makes  him  bold — 

And  so,  with  passion  all  in  tatters, 
The  trembling  tale  is  told. 

Confessions,  vows,  and  blushes — 

Soft  looks,  averted  eyes — 
Each  heart  into  the  other  rushes — 

Each  yields,  each  wins — a  prize  ! 


162  BOWDOIN     POETS. 


PART     III.  MAREIAGE, 

A  gathering  of  fond  friends — 

Brief,  solemn  words  and  prayer — 

A  trembling  to  the  fingers'  ends, 
As,  hand  in  hand,  they  swear  ! 

Sweet  cake,  sweet  wine,  sweet  kisses — 

And  so  the  deed  is  done  ; 
Now,  for  life's  woes  and  blisses, 

The  wedded  two  are  one  ! 

And  down  the  shining  stream, 

They  launch  their  buoyant  skiff — 

Blest-r~if  they  may  but  trust  hope's  dream- 
But  ah  ! — truth  echoes- — IF  ! 

SEQUEL.        "IF." 

If  health  be  firm — if  friends  be  true — 

If  self  be  well  controlled— 
If  tastes  be  pure — if  wants  be  few, 

And  not  too  often  told, — • 


LIFE.  163 

If  reason  always  rule  the  heart, 

And  passions  own  its  sway — 
If  love,  for  aye,  to  life  impart 

The  zest  it  gives  to-day, — 

If  Providence,  with  parent  care, 

Mete  out  the  varying  lot, 
While  meek  contentment  bows  to  share 

The  palace,  or  the  cot, — 

And  oh  !  if  Faith  sublime  and  clear, 

The  spirit  upward  guide — 
Then  blest  indeed,  and  blest  fore'er, 

The  Bridegroom  and  the  Bride  ! 


DEATH   OF    AN   INFANT, 


BY    EDMUND     FL AGG . 


WELL — rest  thee  bright  one  ;  we  may  not  deplore 
thee  ; 

Death  hath  no  terrors  unto  such  as  thou  ; 
From  ills  to  come,  from  anguished  years — ah,  freely 

We  yield  thee  to  thy  God,  who  calleth  now. 

We  would  not  that  bright  brow  were  marked  with 
furrows, 

Which  Time's  dread  finger  sure  had  graven  there; 
We  would  not  that  pure  lip  had  writhed  with  sorrows, 

Which  all  earth's  tenants  soon  or  late,  must  share. 

Ay,  rest  thee; — yet,  thy  mother's  heart  is  bleeding, 
To  think  that  form  so  chill  and  pulseless  now  ; 

That  rich  dark  eye  its  purple  lid  is  veiling, 
And  the  bright  curls  are  still  upon  thy  brow. 


DEATH    OF    AN    INFANT.  165 

Oft  has  she  gazed  on  thee  in  thy  proud  beauty, 
Buoyant  and  gladsome  in  thy  childish  glee — 

But  ne'er  before  that  face  was  deemed  so  lovely, 
As,  in  its  death-sleep,  it  hath  seemed  to  be. 

And  yet  rest  on: — the  balmy  winds  are  breathing 
A  fragrant  requiem  o'er  thy  peaceful  bed, 

And  summer-flowers  thy  humble  tomb-stone 

wreathing, 
Their  hallowed  incense  o'er  thy  slumbers  shed. 

From  the  far  heaven  the  angel-stars  are  beaming 

In  holy  beauty  on  thy  lowly  rest, 
And  clustering  ivy-leaves  are  richly  streaming, 

With  graceful  tendrils  o'er  the  sleeper's  breast. 

Sleep  on — sleep  on  ! — Ah,  it  were  vain  deploring, 
For  thou  art  gone  where  dwelleth  naught  of  wo  ; 

In  that  bright  realm  thy  pure  young  soul  is  soaring, 
All  scenes  of  sorrow  fading  far  below. 

Then  fare-thee-well  : — no  more  thy  mother's  bosom 
Shall  lull  those  blue-veined  eye-lids  to  their  sleep: 

'Dust  unto  dust:'*—  we  may  not  slight  the  summons, — 
We  give  thee  back  to  earth,  but  we  MUST  WEJEP. 

LOUISVILLE,  AUG.  1839. 


LINES 


TO     MR.     AND     MRS.     G BY    PROMISE. 


BY     THE     EDITOR. 


IT  is  a  melancholy  thing  TO  DIE  : — 
To  leave  the  bright  creations  of  our  hope 
Unrealized, — to  rend  away  the  heart 
From  its  fast  idols, — to  close  up  the  eye 
For  its  last  slumbers,  and  pass  on  unheard, 
To  the  far  land  of  silence  and  of  dreams. 

'Tis  melancholy  TO  BE  BORN  : — to  come 
Unshielded,  to  this  dark,  tempestuous  world, 
Doomed  to  its  change  and  blighting,  to  be  thrown 
Wide  on  its  billowy  breast,  and  cast  again 
Far  to  its  thither  shore — a  broken  reed  ! 
— I  would  not  dash  the  smile  of  brimming  joy 
From  that  young  mother's  eye,  bent  eagerly 
To  the  scarce  breathing  thing  upon  her  breast, 
Nor  check  thy  pride,  its  father. — Given  you, 
Pledge  of  indissoluble  ties,  first-born — 


LINES.  167 

Oh  !  cherish  it  with  undissembled  joy, 

Fast  by  affection's  shrine,  and  rest  your  hopes, 

Yet  not  too  strongly,  on  it. — For  the  plant 

May  blight  untimely,  ye  would  nourish  up 

To  fair  proportions  and  a  queenly  grace, 

Or,  grown  to  the  full  majesty  of  years, 

May  feel  too  harshly  the  rude  play  of  storms. 

That  sweep  the  earth,  e'en  as  the  whirlwind's  wrath! 

That  smile,  fond  mother,  borrowed  from  thine  own, 
Just  taught  to  play  around  its  tiny  lip, 
Waking  that  joy-thrill  to  thy  '  bosom's  depths' — 
Oh  !  it  may  grow  with  the  quick  lapse  of  years, 
To  a  most  perfect  witchery,  and  lure 
Some  fell,  destroying  angel  to  his  wiles  ! 
That  eye — whose  light  is  caught  from  the  pure 

heavens 

It  scarce  has  looked  upon,  too  soon  may  gleam 
With  an  unearthly  wildness — and  that  heart, 
Pressed  to  thine  own  with  ever  answering  pulse, 
And  beating  lightly  in  its  innocence, 
May  feel  the  rush  of  passions  scathing  it  ; 
Or,  pressed  too  long  to  this  chill  world's  hard  heart, 
That  beats  not  to  its  beating — giving  back 
But  cold  responses  to  its  yearning  hopes — 
Grow  passionless  and  still,  as  for  the  grave. 
Those  lips — that  drink  a  mother's  fondest  kiss, 


168  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

But  know  not  yet  to  fashion  the  return, — 

Those  lips,  a  parent's  pride  would  teach  to  say 

*  My  father,'  and  the  household  words  we  love,— 

May  shed  the  poison  of  a  treacherous  heart, 

And  breathe  the  words  of  dark  inconstancy. 

That  ear — unwonted  yet  to  listen  aught 

Save  the  pleased  mother's  gentlest  lullaby, 

Or  father's  proud  'my  daughter' — may  soon  feel 

The  grating  discords  of  the  world's  harsh  voice, 

Calling  to  sorrow  and  to  early  tears. 

— The  unquiet  foot  so  often  thou  dost  press, 

With  a  rapt  mother's  fondness,  to  thy  lips, 

That  have  just  known  the  joy — oh  !  shall  it  tread 

The  scorner's  path? 

Shall  that  fair,  first-born  babe 
Grow  wayward  in  its  early  years  ; — forget 
The  eye  that  watched  it  ever  tenderly — 
That  smiled  upon  it  with  the  morning  light 
And  at  the  evening  dews,  and  waked  for  it 
In  the  still  watches  of  the  slumbering  night,—" 
The  hand  that  rocked  it  to  its  cradle  rest, 
Stayed  its  first  tottering  on  the  nursery  floor, 
Parted  the  curls  upon  its  childhood  brow, 
And  smoothed  the  ruffles  of  its  infant  care, — 
The  voice  that  hushed  its  broken  slumberings, 
That  taught  it  in  its  lisping  infancy, 
*OuR  FATHER,'  and  the  pleasant  evening  hymn,— > 


LINES.  169 

That  calmed  the  tumult  of  its  troubled  breast, 
With  the  kind  soothings  of  a  tone,  like  that 
Which  bade  the  waves  be  still  on  Gallilee, — 
And  ever  was  around  its  joyous  hours 
In  gentle  melodies  of  breathing  love  ? 
Forget  such  tenderness  ? 

Oh  !  mother,  prat/. 

And  thou  dost  pray.     The  bosom  that  has  heaved 
To  the  slight  pressure  of  thy  first-born's  cheek, 
Has  felt  the  yearnings  of  a  mother's  love 
That  would  not  be  forbidden,  and  its  prayer, 
Borne  by  the  spirits  ministering  around 
Thy  waking  and  the  infant's  rest,  has  gone 
To  the  recording  angel.     And  the  God 
Who  keepeth  covenant,  remembereth 
That  gentle  falling  of  baptismal  dews, 
And  stoopeth  now  with  broad  o'er-shadowing 
Of  the  celestial  wings,  to  shelter  it. 

Mother,  have  faith.     So  the  fair  flower  that  springs 
To  its  unfolding  beauty,  'neath  thine  eye, 
Shall  grow,  with  the  soft  sunlight  of  thy  smiles, 
And  with  the  dew-drops  of  thine  anxious  tears, 
To  scatter  perfume  round  thee — and  shall  pass, 
After  life's  Autumn,  to  the   'living  green' 
Of  the  '  Sweet  Fields,'  and  the  unfading  Spring. 


SPIRIT    VOICES 


BY    GEORGE     W  .     LAMB. 


IN  the  silent  greenwood  glade, 
In  the  dim  old  forest's  shade, 

By  the  rushing  river, — 
There  are  sweet  low  voices  singing, 
Music  on  the  soft  breeze  flinging, 

And  they  haunt  me  ever. 

In  the  star-crowned,   quiet  night, 
Ringing  from  the  moonlit  height, 

Whispering  from  the  vale, 
From  the  swinging,  leafy  bough, 
And  the  dewy  flowers  below, 

Murmuring  still  their  tale. 


SPIRIT     VOICES.  171 

'Tis  of  days  long  passed  away, 
'Tis  of  forms  now  cold  in  clay 

These  sweet  voices  tell. 
At  the  memories  they  bring, 
Tears  and  smiles,  together,  spring 

From  the  heart's  deep  swell. 

Old  friends  again  about  me  stand, 
And  once  more  the  clasping  hand 

And  the  kindling  eye, 
Better  far  than  words  can  do — 
Tell  that  hearts  are  warm  and  true 

As  in  days  gone  by. 

And,  as  these  sweet  visions  throng, 
Joyous  laughs  with  many  a  song 

On  the  charmed  air  swell, 
And  strike  upon  the  dreaming  brain 
Till  the  old  time  seems  back  again — 

The  old  time  loved  so  well. 

Ever  thus  in  greenwood  glade 
And  in  the  deep  forest  shade 

And  by  the  rushing  river, 
There  are  sweet,  low  voices  singing, 
Music  to  the  soft  breeze  flinging, 

And  they  haunt  me  ever. 


GATHERING    OF    THE    COVENANTERS. 


BY   GEORGE     F.    MAGOUN. 


No  proud  cathedral  bell  the  prayer-call  bearing, 
Swung  solemnly  within  its  lofty  tower, 
All  sights  and  sounds,  and  their  true  hearts  unerring 
Proclaimed  the  hour. 

The  sunset-wane  of  day's  resplendent  glory, 
Wrote  on  the  clouds  in  roseate  letters  there, 
Like  some  fine  limner  famed  in  ancient  story, 

"  To  prayer  !  To  prayer  !  " 

The  breeze  that  waved  the  meek,  dew-dripping 

flowers, 

And  breathed  inspiring  fragrance  on  the  air, 
A  murmur  sent  through  all  their  blossomy  bowers,, 
"To  prayer  !  To  prayer!'* 


GATHERING    OF    THE    COVENANTERS.     173 

Not  mid  the  pomp  of  serried  arch  and  column 
They  led  their  meek  and  reverent  array  ; 
Where  all  was  wild,  yet  Sabbath-like  and  solemn, 
They  turned  to  pray. 

Wild,  and  yet  Sabbath-like  !     Huge  rocky  masses 
Were  piled  that  yawning  cavern-temple  round, 
Where  the  fierce  earthquake  in  its  rifting  passes 
A  home  had  found  ! 

The  Patriarch  came,  his  long  white  locks  revealing 
Time's  sway  of  joy  and  sorrow,  hope  and  fear, 
And  the  wee  infant  tottered  from  his  dwelling 
Of  scarce  a  year. 

The  mother  came.     Her  woman's  heart  will  falter 
As  priestly  hands  her  baptized  infant  lift, 
And  still  the  white-robed  maidens  at  the  altar 
Blush  at  the  gift  ! 

*     *     *     Stay  ! — A  swift  banner-plaid  went  flash- 
ing 

High  o'er  the  rocky  verge  with  sudden  gleam, 
And  sullenly  a  heavy  stone  fell  plashing 
Upon  the  stream  ! 


15* 


174  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Up  !  worshippers  !  unto  your  Eyrie  dwelling 
If  ye  would  never  death  or  torture  know  ! 
Like  a  wild  torrent  from  the  mountains  swelling 
Burst  the  red  foe  ! 

And  lo  !  while  fiery  curse  and  imprecation 
Pour  in  hot  volleys  on  the  praise-stirred  air  ; 
The  mountain-flood, — swift  herald  of  salvation, — 
Itself  is  there  ! 

Their  foam-flecked  crests  o'er  hill  and  valley  flinging, 
On  !  on  !  the  raving,  thundering  waters  pour  ! 
On  that  wild  sea  no  wave-washed  corse  is  swinging^ 
One  yell  ! — 'twas  o'er  ! 

While  high  above,  unheard  amid  the  thunder, 
The  Covenanters  praise  that  vengeful  God, 
Who  flung  the  mighty  from  his  prey  asunder 

On  that  dark  flood  ! 
t 

That  spirit  reigneth  still  !     So,  Christian,  waging 
A  terrible  war  along  life's  corse-strewn  road, 
Fear  not  !   One  power  can  calm  thy  foe's  fierce 
raging — 

Oh  !  trust  in  God  f 


WHAT    WOULD    YE    ASK? 


BY     GEORGE     W.     LAMB 


WHAT  would  ye  ask — a  restless  strife  of  soul 
For  wealth,  or  fame,  or  aught  beneath  the  sun  ? 

Alas  !  man's  life  is  short  to  have  such  goal, 
And  what  is  human  glory  when  'tis  won  ! 

The  grave  receiveth  all.  The  hero's  crown 
And  poet's  laurels  crumble  into  dust  ; 

Soon  are  their  names  forgot,  though  long  renown 
And  deathless  honor  was  their  fondest  trust. 

The  eye  grows  dim  and  youthful  fire  burns  low, 
The  strong  limbs  bend,  the  once  warm  heart  grows 
cold  ; 

Yet  onward  still  this  toiling  world  doth  go, 
As  if  man  ne'er  should  lay  beneath  the  mould. 


176  BOWDOIN      POETS. 

Bend  to  your  tasks,  ye  who  amid  the  clash 

And  clang  of  life's  hard  strugglings  win  your  way, 

Strive  on  unceasing  though  the  bitter  lash 

Of  hopes  all  blighted  smite  your  hearts  each  day. 

Press  on  untiring  'mid  the  jostling  crowd, 

Heed  not  the  weak  ones  crushed  beneath  your 
tread, 

Think  not  upon  the  coming  pall  and  shroud 

And  narrow  grave — your  home  when  life  has  fled.. 

And  this  ye  say  is  happiness,  and  tell 

Of  ends  attained  and  high  ambition  crowned  ! 

Ye  cannot  hear  how  oft  is  rung  a  knell 
Where  doth  one  shout  of  victory  resound. 

Ye  reck  not  of  the  withering,  wasting  heart, 
The  life-long  toil  unblessed  by  fortune's  smile, 

The  sickening  grief  that  bids  the  life  depart, 
And  the  dark  woe  no  soothing  can  beguile. 

Triumphant  notes  are  ringing  in  your  ears, 
Ye  list  not  when  is  struck  a  mournful  strain, 

Though  round  ye  blight,  decay,  and  hurrying  years, 
And  mouldering  dust,  tell  how  'tis  all  in  vain. 


WHAT     WOULD     YE     ASK?  177 

Live  out  your  little  span,  on  honor's  scroll 

Your  names  and  glorious  deeds  emblazon  high, 

All  aims  accomplish,  reach  the  utmost  goal 

For  which  ye  strove — then  lay  ye  down  and  die  ! 

'Tis  the  sure  end.     When  in  the  funeral  urn 
Thy  head,  once  proudly  lifted,  lieth  low  ; 

Long  generations,  thronging  in  their  turn, 
Will  trample  on  thine  ashes  as  they  go. 

The  grave  receiveth  all.     Within  its  breast 
The  peasant  lies — the  prince  is  at  his  side — 

Long  are  their  slumbers,  silent  is  their  rest, 
And  equal  now  is  poverty  and  pride 

It  matters  not  what  they  may  leave  behind 
One  lays  aside  his  staff  and  one  his  crown, 

To  his  last  resting  place  of  clay  consigned, 
Each  in  his  nothingness  has  laid  him  down. 

So  go  we  on,  still  struggling,  to  the  tomb  ; 

Each  bubble  breaking,  yet  we  grasp  again  ; 
Each  hoped  for  pleasure  bringing  deeper  gloom, 

And  every  joy  with  sorrow  in  its  train. 


AN    AIR-CHATEAU 


BY     NEHEMIAH     CLEAVELAND 


How  beauteous  in  the  glowing  west, 
Those  thousand-tinted  isles  that  float ; 

On  the  broad  sea  of  light  they  rest, 
Or  pass  to  lovelier  realms  remote. 

Methinks  it  were  a  bliss  to  roam 

Where  those  far  fields  in  beauty  lie  ; 

Methinks  there  were  a  welcome  home. 
In  the  soft  clime  of  yonder  sky. 

On  some  bright,  sunny  cloud,  I'd  build 
My  palace,  in  the  verge  of  heaven  ; 

On  marble  fix  it  firm,  and  gild 
Its  cornices  with  gold  of  even. 


AN     AIR-CHATEAU.  179 

From  amethystine  beds  I'd  draw 
My  blocks  to  shape  its  swelling  dome  ; 

Here  should  you  trace  the  old  Doric  law, 
There  the  Corinthian  grace  of  Rome. 

In  avenues  of  enchanting  sweep, 

Broad  oaks  and  towering  elms  should  stand  ; 
Blue  lakes  in  placid  stillness  sleep, 

And  currents  roll  o'er  silver  sand. 

Perchance,  to  animate  the  scene, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  art  and  gold, 

Some  spirit,  whose  seraphic  mien 

Should  wear  no  trace  of  earthly  mould — 

Crowning  each  hope,  might  cheer  my  eyes 
With  beauty,  and  with  love  my  heart, 

And  to  my  sky-hung  Paradise, 

Its  last  and  loveliest  charm  impart. 

The  day,  with  her,  more  calm,  more  bright, 

Would  flit  on  silken  wing  away, 
With  her,  the  dark  and  drowsy  night 

Seem  soft  and  cheerful  as  the  dav. 


180  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Pensive  we'd  rove  where  scarce  a  ray 
Pierces  the  dun,  o'er-hanging  shade, 

Or,  arm  in  arm,  delighted  stray 

Through  flowery  lawn  and  emerald  glade. 

The  joys  of  high,  soul-kindling  thought  ; 

Sweet  converse  at  the  twilight  hour  ; 
The  pleasures  of  a  life,  untaught 

To  pant  for  wealth  or  sigh  for  power  ;— 

The  calm  delights  of  lettered  ease  ; 

Of  virtuous  toil  the  peaceful  rest  :— 
Who  finds  his  bliss  in  such  as  these, 

How  truly  wise,  how  deeply  blest  ! 

Of  joy, — on  earth,  or  in  the  skies, — 
But  one  perennial  spring  is  found  ; 

Deep  in  the  soul  that  fountain  lies, 
And  flowers  of  Eden  fringe  it  round* 


LINES 

ON     THE     DEATH     OF     B.     B.     THATCHER, 
BY  ISAAC    M'LELLAN,  JR. 


Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 
And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave.      LONGFELLOW. 


HARK  !  the  funeral  bell  is  tolling — 

Calling  to  the  grave's  retreat  ; 
And  the  funeral  car  is  rolling 

Through  the  city's  crowded  street. 
Soon  the  marble  cell  will  hold  thee 

In  its  dumb  and  solemn  rest — 
Soon  the  grassy  turf  will  fold  thee 

Closely  to  its  heaving  breast  ! 

On  thy  pallid  brow  a  shadow 
From  the  wing  of  Death  is  cast  ; 

16 


182  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

From  thy  sparkling  eye,  the  brightness 

That  illumined  it  hath  past. 
May  the  green  grass,  o'er  thee  sighing, 

Whisper  forth  its  tenderest  air  ; 
May  the  sweet  birds,  o'er  thee  flying, 

Pour  their  mellowest  sorrows  there. 
Let  Nature  view  with  tearful  lashes 
The  spot  that  holds  her  poet's  ashes. 

Quenched  is  now  thy  studious  taper, 

And  thy  chair  holds  thee  no  more, 
For  the  scholar's  vigil's  ended — 

His  task  is  done,  his  toil  is  o'er. 
The  spider  on  thy  shelf  is  weaving 

His  untouched  net  from  book  to  book, 
And  low  the  poet's  harp  is  resting — • 

Neglected  in  his  favorite  nook. 

The  thoughtless  world  may  soon  forget  thee, 

But,  in  many  a  heart  thy  name 
Shall  keep  its  sweet  and  precious  perfume, 

In  bloom  and  freshness  still  the  same. 
O'er  Time's  wide  sands  the  rolling  billow 

May  dim  the  print  of  thy  career, 
Yet  love  and  memory  still  will  cherish 

For  thee  the  sacred  sigh  and  tear. 


LINES.  183 

Classmate,  gentle  Classmate  !  fast 

The  dizzy  wheel  of  time  flies  round  ! 
Scarce  a  moment  doth  it  seem 

Since  thy  blushing  brow  was  bound 
With  the  cloistered  college  crown, 
Meekly  worn,  but  nobly  won. 
As  our  little  band  departed, 

Pilgrims  from  our  classic  home, 
Joyous  each,  and  happy-hearted, 

Through  life's  untried  scenes  to  roam, 
Little  recked  we  of  its  sorrow, 
Joy  to-day  and  grief  to-morrow  ! 
But  alas,  the  thorny  way 

Hath  entangled  many  feet, 
And  how  many  are  reposing 

Where  the  churchyard  tenants  meet  ! 
But  no  purer  name  than  thine 
Fills  the  tablet's  mournful  line. 

Ashes  to  ashes — dust  to  dust  ! 

'Tis  written  that  the  glowing  cheek 
In  its  youthful  bloom  must  fade 

As  fades  the  rainbow's  painted  streak. 
The  silver  head,  the  locks  of  gold, 

The  reverend  sage,  the  humble  child, 
JMust  vanish,  with  the  crumbling  mould 

Jn  rolling  hillocks  o'er  them  piled  f 


184  BOWDOIN     POETS. 

Gentle  Pilgrim — fare  thee  well ! 

In  thy  dewy  morn  of  day, 
Yielding  scrip  and  staff  and  shell, 

Thou  hast  fainted  by  the  way  ! 
All  who  fill  this  vast  procession, 

Travelling  down  the  vale  of  tears, 
Will  be  shortly  sleeping  with  thee, 

Vexed  no  more  with  toils  and  fears. 


NOTE.  Benjamin  Bussey  Thatcher,  youngest  son  of  Hon. 
Samuel  Thatcher,  was  born  in  Warren,  Maine,  Oct.  8,  1809. 
He  was  graduated  in  1826 — before  he  was  seventeen  years  of 
age. — After  a  short  career  of  distinguished  success  in  the 
paths  of  Literature,  his  chosen  profession, — he  died  in  Bos- 
ton, July  14,  1840,  in  the  Faith  of  the  Gospel. A  more 

extended  obituary  of  Mr.  Thatcher  was  in  type,  but  was 
omitted  to  make  room  for  the  foregoing  tribute  to  his  mem- 
ory, not  less  deserved  than  beautiful. 

Many  hearts  are  in  tears  at  the  departure  of  our  deceased 
brother.  But  we  are  admonished  in  his  own  beautiful  words, 

To  "weep  not  for  the  dead 
Who  in  the  glory  of  green  youth  do  fall." 

Unable,  from  the  state  of  his  health,  to  prepare  any  thing 
particularly  for  this  book,  he  directed  us  to  several  articles 
from  which  to  make  a  selection.  "Weep  not  for  the  Dead," 
and  "  The  Last  Request,"  will  be  read  with  peculiar  inter- 
est, now  that  their  author  is  no  more.  Of  equal  beauty,  and 
disclosing  in  a  similar  manner  his  yearnings  for  the  •'  upper 
life,"  are  his  "  I  would  not  live  alway,"  and  "  Twilight  Mu- 
sings,"— the  latter  prepared  for  the  press  only  the  day  before 
his  death. 

While  the  surviving  may  weep  that  he  has  thus  early  per- 
ished from  among  living  men,  the  departed  has  but  gone  to 
realize  the  consolatory  truth  of  his  own  lines  : 

''Nor  fell  decay,  nor  cankering  sin,  (the  blight  upon  our  rose,) 
May  mar,  'mid  all  its  loveliness,  that  land's  divine  repose  j 
But  God  will  wipe  these  weeping  eyes,  these  mysteries  dispel, 
And  Love  forget  forevermore,  the  sorrowing  Farewell!  " 


NOTES. 


Page  viii.     From  old  Bun  go -nun  go -nock, 

To  where  merry  Quobomock,  fyc. 

One  of  these  names,  now  generally  syncopated  into  Bun- 
gonock  was  applied  by  the  Indians  to  an  indentation  of  the 
Casco,  about  three  miles  from  the  College  buildings.  Quo- 
bomock  was  a  name  given  the  Androscoggin  where  it  unites 
with  the  Kennebec,  and  forms  the  Merry-Meeting  Bay — four 
miles  from  the  Colleges  in  another  direction.  They  are  both 
upon  borders  of  the  ancient  Pegepscot,  also  the  Indian  name 
of  a  territory  including  Brunswick. 

Page  viii.     And,  the  wave-embosomed  islands 
Of  the  sea. 

Casco  Bay,  whose  North  Eastern  shore  is  formed  by 
Brunswick  and  Harpswell,  is  remarkable  for  the  fineness  of 
its  coast  and  island  scenery.  As  seen  in  travelling  upon  the 
lower  route  from  Portland  to  Brunswick,  it  affords  prospects 
of  surpassing  beauty.  A  traveller  of  no  small  reputation, 
has  remarked  that  the  scenery  of  this  Bay,  resembles  that 
of  the  Mediterranean  more  nearly  than  any  thing  of  the  kind 
he  had  seen  in  this  country.  There  are  scattered  through  it 
more  than  three  hundred  and  and  sixty  islands  of  great  di- 
versity in  extent  and  scenery — offering  a  variety  of  beautiful 
resorts  for  sailing  parties  and  pic-nics. 

Page  viii.         Through  the  pines'1  majestic  arches. 

In  the  rear  of  the  college  buildings  is  a  native  growth  of 
stately  pines,  ever  green — and  to  the  imaginative,  ever  whis- 
pering 

Come  "mingle  with  the  roar 

Of  the  pine-forest,  dark  and  hoar !" 

Page  4.         William  B.   Walter. 

We  find  several  poems  of  Mr.  Walter,  published  soon  after 
his  graduation. — The  pieces  contained  in  this  book  are  from 
a  volume  published  in  1821  and  dedicated  to  the  Rev.  John 
Pierpont. — William  Bicker  Walter,  was  son  of  Bishop  Wal- 
ter of  Boston,  and  died  early,  we  believe  at  the  South.  Par- 
ticulars of  his  history  we  have  not  learned. 


186  NOTES. 

Page  9.         Frederic  Mellen. 

Frederic  Mellen,  son  of  Hon.  Prenliss  Mellen,  was  gradu- 
ated in  1825. — The  following  extracts  are  from  an  obituary, 
written  at  the  time  of  his  death. — "With  a  native  character 
of  great  suavity,  simplicity,  and  instinctive  correctness  of 
moral  sentiment,  an  intuitive  perception  of  poetic  beauty, 
and  peculiar  quickness  of  apprehension  and  susceptibility  to 
the  influences  under  which  he  was  reared  from  infancy,  and 
imbibing  at  home  the  purest  principles  of  virtue,  he  seasona- 
bly received  the  advantages  of  an  education  at  Bowdoin  Col- 
lege, which  nourished  a  love  of  classic  and  polished  litera- 
ture, and  enabled  him  to  cultivate  those  powers,  with  which 
he  was  gifted,  with  an  upward  aim  to  excel  in  whatever  be- 
longed to  mental  or  professional  accomplishment.  A  pervad- 
ing taste  for  one  favorite  art,  early  discovered,  and  displaying 
a  peculiar  aptitude  for  the  finest  combinations  of  forms  and 
colors — the  art  of  painting — obtained  the  mastery  of  his  pur- 
suits and  purposes  ;  and  he  bade  fair,  by  the  proofs  of  origi- 
nal effort,  to  arrive  at  distinction  in  the  most  elegant  branch- 
es of  this  polite  department.  He  also  possessed  a  very  de- 
lightful and  delicate  poetic  talent.  A  number  of  gems  have 
been  preserved,  among  the  choicest  and  sweetest  which 
grace  the  Annuals,  which  would  form  a  pleasing  circlet  on 
the  now  pale  brow,  upon  which  the  blooming  wreath  of  youth- 
ful hope  has  untimely  perished.  He  had  a  short  time  previ- 
ous to  his  death,  removed  to  a  sphere  more  propitious  to  the 
cultivation  of  his  favorite  pursuits,  and  the  interest  of  his 
friends  was  awakened  to  his  merited  success.  But  his  mon- 
ument is,  alas  !  to  be  marked  by  the  broken  column  ;  and  the 
blighted  flower  of  his  manly  promise  is  watered,  but  cannot 
be  revived  by  the  tears  of  friendship  and  affection.  " 

Page  13.         Charles  W.  Upham. 

CHARLES  WOOD  UPHAM,  son  of  Timothy  Upham,  Esq.  of 
Portsmouth,  N.  H., — was  born  Sept.  9,  1814,  and  received 
his  name,  in  part,  in  memory  of  a  gallant  friend  of  his  father 
— Lieut.  Col.  Wood  of  the  Engineers — who  was  killed  near 
General  Upham,  at  the  Sortie  from  West  Erie,  Sept.  17. — He 
died  in  December,  1834— having  just  entered  on  his  twenty- 
first  year.  We  make  the  following  extract  from  an  obituary 
notice,  published  soon  after  his  decease. — "  There  was  much 
in  his  childhood  to  cherish  the  highest  hopes  with  regard  to 
him  in  the  minds  of  his  parents  and  friends.  He  showed  an 
ardent  love  for  knowledge,  and  while  he  mastered  with  sin- 
gular facility  the  elementary  studies  of  the  school,  he  made 
himself  conversant  with  many  standard  works  in  English  lit- 


NOTES.  187 

erature.  He  at  this  period  manifested  a  great  fondness  for 
the  fine  arts,  particularly  for  painting ;  and  for  several  years 
the  pencil  and  the  brush  were  the  almost  uniform  compan- 
ions of  his  leisure  hours.  His  juvenile  success  gives  ample 
proof  that  time  and  diligence  only  were  wanting  to  have 
made  him  an  eminent  artist ;  but  when  he  felt  himself  cal- 
led to  a  higher  and  holier  profession,  from  a  sense  of  duty, 
yet  not  without  a  severe  struggle,  he  denied  himself  the  chos- 
en occupation  of  his  boyhood.  In  1829,  he  entered  the 
Freshman  Class  in  Bowdoin  College,  and  shortly  after  select- 
ed the  Christian  ministry  as  his  profession.  While  in  Col- 
lege, he  maintained  a  high  rank  in  his  class,  distinguished 
himself  particularly  as  a  writer,  and  gained  the  lasting  esteem 
and  affection  both  of  his  instructors  and  his  fellow- pupils. 
At  the  close  of  his  Sophomore  year,  he  left  College  to  become 
an  assistant  in  an  extensive  female  Seminary  in  Canandai- 
gua,  N.  Y.  He  had,  in  the  intervals  of  his  duty  in  school,, 
pursued  the  studies  of  his  class,  and  was  expecting  to  rejoin 
them  at  Brunswick  early  in  their  Senior  year.  But  in  the 
autumn  of  1832,  by  the  upsetting  of  a  stage,  he  sustained  an 
injury  of  the  spine,  which,  though  not  perceived  at  the  time, 
shortly  after  occasioned  a  severe  illness,  and  rendered  the 
whole  residue  of  his  life  a  period  of  weakness  and  intense 
suffering. 

"  He  had  few  friends,  for  he  sought  few ;  but  these  he 
bound  to  himself  by  unreserved  confidence  and  by  a  self- 
forgetting  sympathy. All  the  talents  and  virtues  of  this 

lamented  young  man  were  rendered  doubly  interesting,  as 
sanctified  by  Christian  piety.  And  as  one  by  one  the  ties 
that  bound  him  to  life  were  sundered,  he  seemed  to  cling 
with  a  still  firmer  faith  and  a  still  more  joyous  hope  to  the 
promise  of  the  life  to  come." 

It  is  due  the  subject  of  this  notice,  to  remark  in  regard  to 
his  poetical  effusions,  that  they  were  never  intended  for  the 
public  eye.  Several  articles  written  for  his  own  recreation 
or  the  gratification  of  friends — found  their  way  into  the  pub- 
lic prints  after  his  decease.  From  these  we  have  made  our 
selection — and  when  it  is  recollected  they  were  written  at  the 
early  age  of  about  eighteen  years—  we  only  the  more  regret 
that  he  has  passed  the  '  returnless  bourne.' 

Page  27.          Francis  Barbour. 

Francis  Barbour,  son  of  Joseph  Barbour,  Esq.,  of  Gorham, 
was  graduated  in  1830,  and  afterwards  pursued  the  study  of 
Law,  and  still  later  that  of  Medicine.  Not  satisfied  howev-- 
er  with  these  pursuits,  he  determined  to  devote  himself  to  the 
art  of  Painting,  for  which  he  had  an  early  taste.  He  visited 


. 

188  NOTES. 

Boston  and  New  York,  to  receive  instruction  in  his  favorite 
pursuit ;  but  unwilling  to  endure  the  drudgery  imposed  on 
the  beginner,  he  returned  to  Gorham  to  pursue  his  chosen 
art  by  himself.  And  although  he  lived  but  a  few  years  to 
prosecute  his  labors,  he  has  left  in  his  portraits  and  other 
paintings,  evidences  of  no  common  genius.  It  is  a  remark- 
able fact  that  three  of  the  deceased  "Poets,"  discovered  a 
more  than  ordinary  taste  for  Painting. 

Mr.  Barbour  is  remembered  by  his  college  friends  and 
other  acquaintances,  as  "gentlemanly  in  his  deportment 
and  graceful  in  his  manners  ; — generous,  high-minded,  and 
honorable  in  his  intercourse  with  his  fellow  men  ;  indepen- 
dent in  thought,  word,  and  action,"  and  at  the  same  time 
governed  by  "  that  kindness  arid  good  sense  that  never  al- 
lowed his  independence  to  degenerate  into  obstinacy." 

He  passed  slowly  and  silently  into  the  grave.  His  disor- 
der, consumption,  did  not  wholly  interrupt  his  studies  until 
the  day  of  his  death.  On  the  preceding  day  he  was  engaged 
upon  a  portrait  which  he  left  unfinished. 

Mr.  Barbour  died  at  his  father's  residence,  March  1,  1839 
— JEi.  28. 
Page  33.     Where  Scammel  o'er  the  port,  fyc. 

Scammel  is  a  name  given  the  national  Fort  at  the  en- 
trance of  Portland  harbor. 

Page  52.      Still  are  the  lips  all  eloquent, 

That  charms  our  raptured  ears,  fyc. 

Ogilvie,  the  subject  of  this  poem  was  a  Scotch  nobleman 
who  travelled  in  the  United  States,  some  twenty  or  thirty 
years  since,  distinguished  for  his  oratorical  powers. 

Page  76.  In  the  last  line  of  the  first  stanza,  introduce  me 
between  leave  and  so. 

Page  159.     Peal  out  the  Pandean 's  thrilling  strain. 

Pandean  is  the  name  of  the  College  Band. 


VB   I  1541 


M189O05 


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